REUBEN  H.  HILTON. 
Newburgh,  N.Y. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Lb  Jjaug/itez  of  the 
and 


BY 


MRS.  BURTON  HARRISON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  ANGLOMANIACS,"  "FLOWER  DE  HUNDRED,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

104  &  106  FOURTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1892.  BY 
CASSELL   PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


THE   MERSHON   COMPANY   PRESS, 
RAHWAY,   N.   J. 


CONTENTS. 


Ul 

PAGE 

>• 

*      A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH,  i 

o= 

CO 

^3      A  THORN  IN  His  CUSHION,       .        .        .        113 

MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER,  141 

CM 

;»• 

in      JENNY,  THE  DEBUTANTE 155 

> 

WIFE'S  LOVE, 189 

A  HARP  UNSTRUNG, 211 

<3 

o      A  SUIT  DECIDED e  243 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE 
SOUTH.* 


To  look  now  at  the  scene  of  Berthe's 
fondly  remembered  childhood  would  reveal 
but  a  melancholy  semblance  of  its  old-time 
stately  beauty.  The  alleys  of  almond  laurel, 
under  which  the  girl  played  until  the  crash 
of  war  silenced  forever  the  sweet  symphony 
of  her  Southern  life,  are  matted  and  hoary, 
their  arches  lost  to  sight  beneath  the 
wedded  blooms  of  wild-growing  rose  and 
jasmine.  The  gardens  around  the  old 
house  are  a  weedy  ruin ;  the  walls  of  the 
forsaken  dwelling  are  scarred  where  patches 
of  stucco  have  dropped  away.  But  why 

multiply  images  of  the  most  distressful  fea- 
*  First  published  in  the  COSMOPOLITAN  MAGAZINE. 


2  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

ture  of  American  home  history?  Everyone 
who  has  journeyed  in  the  South  will  have 
carried  away  some  vision  of 

The  nakedness  and  vacancy 
Of  the  dark,  deserted  house, 

which  all  the  bourgeoning  of  new  prosper- 
ity is  powerless  to  efface.  Les  Amandiers 
had  been  built  and  named  by  Berthe's 
great-grandfather  St.  Felix,  from  whom  it 
had  come  by  inheritance  to  her  mother, 
Mme.  de  Lagastinc. 

Early  in  the  century  M.  Gaston  de  St. 
Felix,  then  a  youngster  at  his  studies  in 
Paris,  had  scandalized  his  friends  in  New 
Orleans  by  marrying  a  beautiful  girl  actress, 
whom  he  transported  from  the  scene  of  her 
early  triumphs  to  a  home  in  the  wilderness 
across  the  sea.  For  her  the  enamored 
young  husband  had  lavished  wealth  upon 
the  great  stately  white  house  with  wings  and 
galleries  and  colonnades;  for  her  were  the 
terraces,  with  rows  of  orange  and  oleander 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  7^HE  SOUTH.  3 

trees,  the  flights  of  steps  with  vases  holding 
century  plants,  the  gardens  with  clipped 
hedges,  the  fountains,  fish  ponds,  arbors — all 
fashions  of  old  France  designed  to  comfort 
the  expatriated  little  Parisienne.  At  no 
great  distance  from  one  of  the  most  pros- 
perous of  the  towns  built  on  the  lower  Mis- 
sissippi River,  in  that  region  pictured  as 
tropical  by  Chateaubriand  in  "Atala,"  but  in 
reality  bearing  the  characteristics  of  the 
temperate  zone,  this  earthly  paradise  had 
been  constructed.  But,  alas,  at  a  season 
when  the  splendid  white  chalice  of  the 
cucumber  tree  opens  its  bosom  to  the 
sun,  the  little  French  lady  had  put  forth 
her  first  blossom  and  faded  from  the 
scene. 

Berthe's  mother,  a  famous  heiress,  was, 
on  coming  into  her  majority,  the  only  living 
representative  of  the  St.  Felix  line.  They 
had  married  her  to  Louis  de  Lagastine,  the 
handsome  scion  of  an  impoverished  family 


4  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

of  Louisiana  Creoles,  and  Berthe  was,  in 
turn,  the  sole  offspring  of  that  alliance. 

Little  Miss  St.  Felix  de  Lagastine,  as  her 
mother  took  pains  to  style  her,  had  but  to 
stamp  her  foot  to  call  to  her  service  a  legion 
of  black  folk,  old  and  young,  who  loved 
her,  shadow  and  substance,  better  than  the 
world  beside.  Her  frocks  and  fineries  came 
twice  a  year  from  Paris,  and  her  father  ad- 
mired and  applauded  everything  she  did. 

The  dark  side  of  life  to  Berthe  was  her 
mother,  a  cold,  haughty  woman,  so  devoted 
to  church  observance  that  she  needed  but  a 
few  yards  of  saints'  drapery  and  a  nimbus 
to  entitle  her  to  a  niche ;  who,  when  she  was 
not  telling  her  beads  like  an  image  of  yel- 
low wax,  sat  working  endless  bands  of  cross- 
stitch  tapestry ;  who  smiled  reluctantly,  and 
disapproved  of  the  friendship  between 
Berthe  and  her  papa. 

Mme.  de  Lagastine,  heartily  ashamed 
of  her  actress  grandmother,  would  never 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  5 

countenance  Berthe's  early  passion  for 
counterfeit  emotion.  One  day  her  lord, 
coming  in  booted  and  spurred  from  riding, 
found  his  wife  paler  than  usual,  her  lips 
compressed,  listening  in  the  dressing  room 
of  one  of  the  great  spare  chambers.  When 
she  bade  him  look  in  and  be  shocked,  he 
saw  through  the  door's  crack  a  baby  star, 
ranting  and  raving  the  speeches  of  some 
turbid  tragedy  of  a  Restoration  dramatist, 
taken  at  hazard  from  the  library  shelves,  all 
unconscious  of  the  meaning  of  her  elo- 
quence, her  cheeks  crimsoned,  her  eyes 
dilated ;  around  her,  on  the  floor,  the  rest  of 
the  dramatis  personse — small  negroes  im- 
pressed into  service,  turbaned  like  Turks, 
and  writhing  in  death  agonies  that  left  an 
eye  open  for  general  observation  of  occur- 
rences. 

"It  is  the  taint  in  our  doomed  race,"  said 
Mme.  de  Lagastine  drearily. 

Berthe,  in  the  act  of  drinking  a  conclusive 


6  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

draught  of  poison  from  the  eau  sucre'e  ap- 
paratus on  the  night-stand  by  the  bed, 
heard  the  burst  of  irreverent  laughter  her 
father  could  not  restrain. 

"  Allez  vous  en,  papa,"  she  said  vindic- 
tively. "You  have  no  right  to  spy  on  me. 
You  are  dishonorable,  and  I  don't  love  you 
one  single  bit." 

Lagastine,  persisting,  pushed  his  way  into 
the  room,  picked  up  the  princess  of  tragedy, 
kissed  her  until  she  cried  out  in  pain,  and 
swore  it  was  the  best  fun  he  ever  saw. 

"I  don't  like  your  choice  of  a  play,  little 
one,"  he  said;  "but,  by  George,  you've  got 
the  stuff  in  you  that  warms  the  best  of  *em." 

Berthe  saw  that  she  was  admired,  and  im- 
mediately the  foolish  little  heart  beat  high 
with  satisfaction.  While  at  a  glimpse  of 
madame's  spare  figure  the  dead  and  dying 
scrambled  away  in  short  order,  that  lady 
came  into  the  room,  a  gleam  of  sullen  anger 
in  her  eyes. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  7 

"So  this  is  how  you  second  my  efforts 
to  bring  my  child  up  like  a  true  demoiselle 
St.  Felix?" 

"She  is  all  Lagastine,  I  have  heard  you 
say,"  her  husband  answered,  with  a  mocking 
bow.  He  was  a-weary  of  the  St.  Felix  lit- 
urgy. The  ten  years  of  it  seemed  fifty. 

"Papa,  papa,  you  dear,  sweet,  beautiful 
papa !"  Berthe  whispered  in  his  ear,  as  he 
carried  her  off  to  the  library  to  see  him  lock 
the  cases  where  the  offending  dramatists 
were  kept;  "I  love  you,  do  you  hear,  I  love 
you.  You  are  my  champion,  and  you  make 
my  heart  ache  with  love,  sometimes.  I  will 
never  touch  a  book  on  that  shelf  again 
whether  you  lock  them  up  or  not." 

And  Lagastine,  with  a  second  glance  at  her, 
left  the  bookcase  door  as  he  had  found  it. 

"Mammy  Clarisse,"  announced  Berthe  to 
her  nurse  one  night,  when  the  old  woman 
was  on  her  knees  taking  the  shoes  and 
stockings  from  the  little  feet  she  liked  to 


8  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


bare  and  fondle ;  "we  are  going  to  have  a 
visitor.  To-morrow  a  boy — a  big  boy — 
named  Belmont  Carrington  is  coming  to 
stay  a  week.  Why,  mammy !  what  makes 
you  start  and  cry?" 

"My  lamb,  it's  an  ole  pain,"  the  nurse 
said  between  gasps. 

"But  there  is  something — tell  me  quick," 
said  Berthe  imperiously. 

"It's  on'y  dat  I  cawn't  hear  dat  name  wid- 
out  surTerin*  agin.  Marse  Belmont  Carring- 
ton, de  uncle  o'  dis  heah  young  one  dat's 
comin',  was  de  master  o'  my  husband,  wot 
I  lost  forty  years  ago." 

Berthe  felt  a  remorseful  pang.  She  had 
heard  the  neighborhood's  dark  story  of  the 
elder  Belmont  Carrington's  departure  one 
day  for  New  Orleans,  where,  during  a  pro- 
longed debauch,  he  had  gambled  away  half 
his  patrimony  and  many  slaves,  including 
his  body  servant,  Johnson;  she  knew  that 
the  offender  had  committed  suicide,  and 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  9 

that  Johnson  had  never  come  back  to  the 
half-crazed  Clarisse. 

"Oh!  how  could  I  forget?"  the  child 
cried,  leaning  over  to  kiss  the  wet  cheek  of 
her  nurse.  "Never  mind,  mammy,  I  will 
show  this  boy  that  he  is  not  welcome  in 
our  house.  If  papa  and  mamma  want  him 
here,  I  don't." 

"It's  no  fault  o'  his'n,  honey,  wat  hap- 
pened so  long  ago.  But  he's  got  blood  in 
his  veins  dat  will  surely  bring  pain  and  mis- 
ery to  dem  dat  loves  him.  Dey  cawn't 
help  theyselves,  dem  Carrin'tons;  dey's 
beautiful  and  witchin',  but  de  day  comes 
when  you  rues  knowin'  'em." 

Berthe,  carrying  to  sleep  with  her  the 
wrongs  of  old  Clarisse,  awoke  determining 
to  keep  the  new  arrival  at  arm's-length. 
There  was,  however,  something  interesting 
about  a  scion  of  a  wicked  race  through 
whom  misery  was  sure  to  come ;  more  inter- 
esting than  the  dapper  youths  approved  by 


10  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTff. 

universal  voice,  who  galloped  up  to  the 
house  door  on  horseback,  following  the 
barouches  containing  visiting  parents  and 
unspotted  relatives. 

So  she  spent  the  day  in  secretly  growing 
impatience  for  Belmont  to  arrive,  and  when 
the  carriage  went  to  meet  him  at  the  boat 
landing  began  to  play  Cleopatra  with  her 
doll,  to  while  away  the  time  of  waiting. 

From  the  verge  of  the  fish  pond  she 
launched  a  barge  of  gilded  osier  where,  on  a 
bank  of  real  flowers  supplying  the  "strange 
invisible  perfume"  that  was  to  "hit  the 
sense  of  the  adjacent  wharves,"  reposed  her 
last  and  loveliest  wax  lady  from  a  Paris 
packing  case.  Holding  a  ribbon  in  his  little 
black  paw,  a  negro  boy  was  instructed  to 
tow  the  royal  barge  around  the  pond, 
Berthe,  with  a  ragged  edition  of  Dick's 
Shakespeare,  declaiming  as  she  followed. 

Half  way,  the  barge  lurched  and  began  to 
sink.  The  valiant  little  darky,  wading  in  to 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  n 

the  rescue  of  her  majesty,  slipped  and  was 
lost  to  sight.  The  shrieks  of  the  quarter 
children  brought  Clarisse  from  the  arbor 
where  she  sat  at  work,  too  late  to  prevent 
Berthe  from  plunging  to  the  rescue  of  Cleo- 
patra's ebon  knight. 

The  families  of  St.  Felix  and  Lagastine 
might  have  lost  their  representative  but  for 
the  arrival  on  the  scene  of  a  tall  lad  of  fif- 
teen, who,  running  down  an  alley  of  olean- 
ders, with  prompt  action  fished  out  of  the 
deepest  part  of  the  pond  Berthe,  clinging  to 
the  submerged  Cato,  who  in  turn  clutched  a 
sovereign  well  on  the  way  to  deliquescence. 

To  this  hero,  young  Belmont  Carrington, 
a  beautiful,  manly  fellow,  whom  to  see  was 
for  most  people  to  love,  the  little  savage 
princess  surrendered  heart  and  brain.  She 
followed  him,  waited  on  him,  gloried  in 
him ;  and  when,  after  a  week's  visit,  he 
went  away  from  Les  Amandiers,  Berthe 
cried  passionately  over  her  loss  and  refused 


12  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

to  be  consoled  for  many  a  long  day.  He 
had  but  melted  into  her  dream  world  of 
heroes  when  the  war  trumpet  blew  and  Les 
Amandiers  passed  under  the  pillar  of  cloud. 

It  is  one  thing  to  be  rich  Americans  in 
Paris  and  quite  another  to  be  so  limited  in 
means  that  cab-hire  becomes  a  considera- 
tion, and  cleaned  gloves  as  much  a  matter 
to  be  aired  as  one's  distinguished  ante- 
cedents in  the  States.  For  some  years  after 
the  war  between  North  and  South  the  gay 
French  capital  appeared  to  swarm  with  a 
succession  of  families  and  individuals  more 
or  less  connected  with  the  recent  ravages  in 
the  Southern  country.  Those  who  were 
less  connected  posed  heroically  as  victims 
of  unheard-of  cruelty  from  their  conquerors. 
The  enumeration  of  their  losses  in  flocks 
and  herds,  and  maid  servants  and  man  ser- 
vants, swelled  as  the  tale  went  farther. 
They  "took  their  grievances  to  walk,"  as 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  13 

the  French  saying  goes,  in  every  quarter 
where  observation  might  be  counted  on. 
The  real  sufferers,  whom  chance  or  fate  had 
brought  into  haven  there,  after  the  ship- 
wreck of  their  four  years'  hope,  hugged 
their  sorrows  proudly  to  their  breasts. 
The  memory  of  fire,  of  famine,  of  desolated 
homes,  of  husbands,  sons,  and  brothers  left 
in  soldiers'  graves  or  toiling  in  exile  at  any 
work  they  could  find  to  put  their  hands  to, 
was  too  fresh  to  bear  casual  mention. 

Among  these  might  be  numbered  Mme. 
de  Lagastine  and  her  young  daughter 
Berthe,  late  of  Les  Amandiers  plantation  in 
Mississippi.  Berthe,  herself,  the  actual  dis- 
penser of  finances,  was  possessor  of  a  bright 
intrepidity  of  spirit  that  made  her  confront 
difficulties  rather  courtingly  than  otherwise, 
as  offering  an  agreeable  variety  of  little  hills 
to  be  skipped  over  instead  of  the  dead  level 
of  a  parquet  floor  to  walk  on  in  high-heeled 
slippers,  A  girl  who,  at  seventeen,  had 


14          A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

gone  through  her  experience  of  conflict  and 
rapine  could  not  class  herself  with  the 
jeunes  demoiselles  of  the  society  their  intro- 
ductions permitted  the  dames  Lagastine  to 
enter.  She  often  tried  to  fancy  the  demure 
damsels,  who  had  never  looked  at  anything 
more  exciting  than  the  face  of  a  mantel 
clock  or  the  frown  of  a  mother  superior,  in 
one  of  the  many  situations  of  that  dark 
dream  of  the  war.  Mme.  de  Lagastine, 
hedged  in  from  childhood  by  prosperity  and 
proprieties,  had  by  now  drifted  into  a 
chronic  state  of  bewilderment  and  helpless- 
ness. As  far  as  money  matters  went, 
Berthe,  who  had  never  known  where  money 
came  from,  was  a  match  for  her.  Their 
income,  sufficient  for  their  wants,  was  re- 
mitted by  a  banker  in  New  Orleans.  For  a 
year  or  two  after  their  arrival  in  Paris  they 
had,  by  the  advice  of  one  or  two  families  of 
old  Louisianians  settled  there,  lived  in  good 
apartments  in  a  fashionable  street.  Lessons 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  15 

began  for  Berthe.  She  had  certain  hours 
with  a  daily  governess,  others  with,  respec- 
tively— a  music  master,  who  came  in  his 
coupe  and  was  always  cross  and  hurried ;  a 
dancing  master,  who  found  there  was  very 
little  he  could  teach  a  young  person  able  to 
waltz  for  hours  with  scarcely  an  increase  of 
the  pale  glow  on  her  cheek ;  a  drawing  mas- 
ter, perpetually  harassed  by  her  heretical 
ideas  on  art ;  and  the  professors  who  kept 
her  hair  and  finger  nails  in  order  at  five 
francs  the  seance.  Her  mother  had,  of 
course,  a  little  carriage  in  which  to  take  her 
drives.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  demoiselle  St. 
Felix  setting  foot  to  earth?  And  there  was 
a  lady's  maid,  a  man,  and  a  red-cheeked 
cnisiniere,  who  ordered  everything  the 
establishment  required,  while  the  butler, 
when  off  other  duty,  skated  in  baize  slippers 
over  the  already  shining  floors.  A  modest 
establishment  in  comparison  with  that  of 
Les  Amandiers,  but  one  that  exacted  a 


1 6  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

comfortable  sum  to  support  it ;  and  in  the 
course  of  time  came  warning  from  their 
man  of  affairs  (an  old  friend  of  gallant  Colo- 
nel de  Lagastine,  and  sincerely  anxious  to 
do  his  best  for  the  widow  and  orphan)  that 
immediate  retrenchment  must  be  made. 

Over  this  letter  madame  cried  a  little, 
observing  that  it  was  impossible,  barbarous 
— a  fortune  like  hers  to  have  melted  into 
thin  air!  asked  Berthe  to  admire  the  effect 
of  the  single-stitch  background  she  was  put- 
ting into  the  tapestry  intended  for  the 
birthday  of  her  gossip  Mme.  de  Tersac ; 
then  rang  to  have  hot  water  renewed  in  the 
boule  at  her  feet — and  dismissed  the  subject 
from  her  thoughts.  Berthe,  picking  up  the 
offending  letter,  studied  it  carefully,  an  un- 
pleasant belief  in  its  trustworthiness  taking 
possession  of  her  mind.  What  should  she 
do?  Whither  turn  for  counsel?  To-mor- 
row, at  any  rate,  she  would  call  on  good 
Mme.  de  Tersac. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  ij 

While  Berthe's  brow  was  knotting  over 
these  problems,  and  while  Mme.  de  Laga- 
stine  stitched,  or  crooned  over  the  Skye 
terrier  carrying  an  imperceptible  though 
suspected  countenance  under  an  enormous 
yellow  bow,  Auguste  came  into  the  sitting 
room  with  a  card  upon  his  tray. 

"I  am  engaged.  I  am  always  engaged," 
began  madame  fretfully;  but  Berthe 
pounced  upon  the  card. 

"Mamma!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  whisper, 
"can  you  imagine  who  has  found  us  out? 
It  is  someone  I  knew  long,  long  ago — when 
I  was  young — it  is  Belmont  Carrington !" 

When,  presently,  their  friend  of  happier 
days  sat,  holding  hat  and  stick,  upon  an 
absurdly  incompetent  gilt  chair,  they  saw 
how  nature  had  more  than  fulfilled  the 
promise  of  his  beautiful  youth.  Oftentimes 
they  had  heard  of  him ;  knew  that,  recalled 
from  the  university  at  the  beginning  of  hos- 
tilities, he  had  fought  through  the  war  as  a 


1 8  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


member  of  the  famous  Washington  Artil- 
lery; and  that,  returning  after  Appomattox 
to  New  Orleans,  he  had  found  himself  to  be 
possessed  of  a  principality  in  barren  acres 
with  which  to  begin  anew  the  world.  En- 
tering the  banking  house  of  Mme.  de  La- 
gastine's  kind  agent,  Mr.  Duval,  Belmont 
had  soon  been  fortunate  enough  to  secure 
a  more  lucrative  post  in  Paris.  Handsome, 
well  accredited,  distinguished  for  gallantry 
in  service,  possessed  of  unusual  charm  in 
manner,  he  had  at  once  made  friends. 
Berthe  had  repeatedly  heard  of  him  as  a 
bright  particular  star  in  the  Creole  colony  of 
Paris,  so  blent  with  the  old  regime  of  aris- 
tocratic France  as  to  be  more  than  a  reflec- 
tion of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  While 
he  and  her  mother  talked  Berthe  specu- 
lated upon  these  things,  and  wondered 
why  his  eyes  kept  wandering  around  to 
her  with  such  a  curious  expression  of 
surprise. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.        19 

"I  had  promised  myself  the  pleasure  of 
calling  upon  you  long  since,  madame,"  he 
said,  hesitating  for  a  moment  as  if  about 
rising  to  take  leave.  "I  will  honestly  con- 
fess that  it  was  one  of  those  visits  we  defer 
through  accident  until  we  are  at  last 
ashamed  to  show  ourselves.  To-day  I  am 
armed  with  a  letter  from  my  friend,  Mr. 
Duval,  who  has  charged  me  with  a  duty  I 
should  be  glad  to  put  aside.  It  is  about 
business — he  fears  that  his  letters  have 
failed  to  make  you  understand — he  begs  me 
to  explain  to  you  the  disposition  of  certain 
of  your  investments." 

Madame  grew  inattentive.  She  found  it 
impossible  to  fix  her  gaze  longer  upon  a 
subject  so  uninteresting.  At  this  juncture, 
with  a  little  toss  of  the  head  and  a  slight 
inflation  of  the  nostrils,  mademoiselle  en- 
tered the  arena. 

"I  think,  if  you  will,  Mr.  Carrington,  you 
had  better  explain  to  me  what  Mr.  Duval 


20          A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

wishes  us  to  know.  It  is  I  who  take  charge 
of  my  mother's  accounts." 

"It  is  no  doubt  the  same  old  story  which 
I  cannot  understand,"  said  the  widow  wea- 
rily. 

Belmont  looked  at  Berthe  with  a  new  em- 
barrassment. From  the  steady  gaze  of  her 
serious  eyes  he  gained  courage. 

With  the  papers  sent  by  Mr.  Duval  open 
between  them  at  a  little  table,  they  went 
over  many  details  hitherto  unknown  to  the 
young  girl.  When  the  examination  was  at 
an  end  she  pondered  briefly,  then  spoke 
composedly: 

"We  have  no  right,  then,  to  be  living  as 
we  are.  The  sum  you  say  we  may  spend 
would  not  pay  a  fourth  part  of  what  we  do 
spend.  To-morrow,  Mr.  Carrington,  I  shall 
see  Mme.  de  Tersac,  who  will  advise  me 
where  to  go." 

"It  is  needless  to  say  you  may  command 
me  in  any  and  every  way,"  he  answered, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  21 

astonished  at  her  composed  acceptance  of  a 
lot  of  poverty. 

"That  we  shall,  never  fear,"  Berthe  said 
smiling;  "I  have  the  most  vivid  remem- 
brance of  the  time  when  you  played  Perci- 
net  to  my  Graciosa  at  the  fish  pond." 

"Oh,  I  remember  now,"  he  cried.  "I 
shall  have  to  own  that,  until  I  met  you 
again,  I  had  almost  forgotten  my  rescue  of — 
let  me  see — what  was  it,  your  poodle,  your 
page  boy,  or 

"It  was  me,"  Berthe  interjected  loftily. 

Decidedly,  she  regretted  her  cordiality 
with  this  oblivious  personage.  But  when, 
laughing  and  apologizing,  he  took  his  leave, 
it  seemed  to  her  somehow  that  sunshine 
had  gone  with  him.  With  a  sigh,  she  sat 
down  beside  her  mother  and  gently  made 
clear  to  her  the  inevitableness  of  a  change 
in  their  style  of  living. 

Next  day,  and  often  thereafter,  Belmont 
placed  himself  at  the  disposal  of  his  coun- 


22  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

trywomen,  to  aid  in  recasting  their  plans  in 
the  narrower  mold  of  cheap  lodgings  with 
"table  understood."  Old  Mine,  de  Ter- 
sac,  as  practical,  luckily,  as  she  was  kind, 
herself  a  New  Orleans  woman  living  on 
nothing  in  particular  a  year,  took  this  mat- 
ter into  her  own  hands,  driving  about  in  a 
fiacre,  accompanied  by  Bcrthe,  and  occasion- 
ally by  Belmont,  to  find  a  suitable  pension. 
After  several  Chcsterfieldian  spats  about 
terms  and  privileges  with  landladies,  silver- 
voiced  and  rapacious,  of  each  of  whom  in 
turn  Mme.  de  Tersac,  on  returning  to  the 
carriage,  would  aver  "that  woman  is  an  infa- 
mous plunderer,  who  would  sell  the  bones 
of  her  grandmother  for  cash,"  the  order  was 
given  to  drive  along  the  Avenue  de  la 
Grande  Arm£e,  thence  beyond  the  barrier 
to  a  villa  boarding  house,  adjoining  one  of 
the  chief  gates  of  the  Bois. 

"I  left  this   for  the  last,  my  dear,  because 
your  poor  mamma  will  have  to  pay  extra 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.        2$ 

cab-hire  for  the  privilege  of  driving  one 
square  beyond  the  city  limits." 

"But  it  is  charming!"  cried  the  girl. 

"Charming!  Perhaps,"  said  the  old  lady 
with  reserve;  "but  undoubtedly  bourgeois; 
and  I'm  wondering  how  we  can  ever  bring 
your  poor  mamma  to  think  of  it !  A  demoi- 
selle St.  Felix !  But  there,  there,  let's  look 
first  and  talk  afterward.  The  gate  with  gilt 
railings  to  the  left,  cocker ;  and  I  hope  this 
creature  won't  prove  a  shark." 

It  was  a  bright  day  of  autumn  when 
Berthe  exclaimed  with  pleasure  at  her  first 
view  of  Bois  Dormant.  The  inner  walls 
of  the  house  and  its  dependencies,  built 
around  a  flagged  and  shady  courtyard  into 
which  peeped  the  treetops  of  the  Bois, 
Avere  covered  with  overlapping  ivy,  save 
where  the  jewel  brightness  of  white-cur- 
tained windows  broke  the  green  facade.  In 
many  of  these  windows  bloomed  pots  of 
hardy  flowers,  and  the  garden  beds  below 


24          A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

were  gay  with  blossoms.  A  colony  of 
brown  birds,  chattering  ceaselessly,  were  the 
only  tenants  of  the  yard. 

"  Pretty,  pretty  place  ! "  said  Berthe. 
"Why  is  it  so  still?" 

"Because  the  boarders  are  all  old  people, 
my  dear,  and—  Ah!  Mme.  la  Propri- 
e"taire,  no  doubt!" 

Mme.  la  Proprie"taire,  in  black  silk,  with 
a  velvet  jacket,  a  tulle  cap  with  pink  rose- 
buds, a  gold  watch  ticking  at  her  waist, 
a  mustache  that  would  have  been  the 
glory  of  a  college  lad,  received  ces  dames 
with  the  usual  effusion  of  her  class.  Yes, 
there  was  a  rez-de~chauss4e  still  to  let,  with 
meals  at  the  pension  table,  where  madame, 
the  mother  of  mademoiselle,  could  be  made 
most  comfortable ;  a  little  garden,  a  ber- 
ceau,  oh !  a  berccau — and  in  spring  the 
nightingales  of  the  Bois — the  boarders  all 
excellent  people — people  settled,  people 
delicate,  whose  candles  are  put  out  by  ten 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  25 

o'clock.  Mademoiselle  herself  would,  no 
doubt,  arrive  from  boarding-school,  to  visit 
madame  her  mamma  on  Sundays? 

Belmont  laughed  at  Berthe's  majesty  of 
mien,  and  Mme.  de  Tersac  hastened  to  ex- 
plain that  her  friends  were  the  widow  and 
daughter  of  a  Confederate  officer,  killed  in 
the  late  war  in  America,  who  required  ac- 
commodations together,  as  well  as  quarters 
for  their  maid. 

Mme.  la  Proprietaire's  brow  puckered 
with  instant  sympathy.  Truly,  the  rez-de- 
c/taussSe,  with  the  garden  and  the  berceau, 
seemed  designed  by  Providence  for  the 
retreat  of  ces  dames ;  she  had  heard  of  that 
sad  war  in  I'Amerique  du  Sud,  but  pardon, 
was  not  mademoiselle  a  trifle  fair  for  one  of 
her  oppressed  race?  One  of  the  boarders — 
a  sister  of  the  lamented  genius  Baras,  the 
great  romancer — was  also  a  mulatto,  but 
darker  far  in  tint  than  mademoiselle! 

The  ringing  silver  of  Berthe's  laugh  re- 


26  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

fused  to  be  restrained.  It  rippled  into  the 
still  precincts  of  Bois  Dormant,  and  set  the 
birds  to  chirping  more  busily  than  before. 
His  friends  established  in  their  new 
abode,  Belmont's  commission  from  Mr. 
Duval  was  at  an  end.  But  many  a  time, 
out  of  the  busy,  brilliant  world  of  Paris,  his 
feet  turned  aside  to  seek  the  quiet  spot 
where,  in  a  little  salon  hung  with  thread- 
bare crimson  stuff,  Mme.  de  Lagastine 
sat  in  her  easy-chair  working  eternal  tapes- 
tries, and  Berthe  hovered,  fresh,  sparkling, 
full  of  infinite  variety,  welcoming  him  with 
all  her  ingenuous  soul  within  her  eyes.  To 
her  he  was  not  only  the  boy  champion 
illumined  with  the  light  of  Les  Amandiers, 
the  ideal  soldier  of  the  Lost  Cause,  but  a 
comrade  in  whose  society  her  youth  had 
begun  to  bloom  again,  her  sad  memories  to 
fade.  Often  they  walked  together  in  the 
Bois,  in  company  with  Berthe's  neighbor 
from  the  attic  floor  above,  Mme.  Letel- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  27 

Her,  a  gentle  old  woman  who  had  conceived 
a  strong  friendship  for  the  solitary  girl. 
Sometimes  Berthe  and  he  dined  with  Mme. 
de  Tersac,  to  go  to  opera  or  theater. 
Once  Carrington  was  allowed  to  entertain 
the  girl  and  her  kind  old  friend  with  a  din- 
ner followed  by  the  play.  But  her  moth- 
er's declining  health  and  their  narrow  cir- 
cumstances shut  Berthe  out,  in  general, 
from  the  pleasures  of  her  age.  Carrington 
felt  that  in  her  he  had  discovered  a  virgin 
island  rich  in  budding  fruit  and  bloom,  the 
right  to  which  there  was  none  to  dispute 
with  him.  His  easy  success  in  bringing 
light  to  her  eyes,  and  pink  to  her  clear  pale 
cheeks,  intoxicated  him.  All  the  while  he 
was  stung  by  an  inward  conviction  that  a 
knowledge  of  his  real  self,  his  life,  would,  if 
known  to  her,  cause  Berthe  pain  beyond  all 
imagining.  Each  day  he  resolved  to  ex- 
plain to  her  his  actual  position,  to  make 
clear  certain  restraining  circumstances  that 


28          A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

held  him  bound ;  and  each  day  Berthe's 
sweet  presence  witched  him  to  self-indul- 
gence. 

One  bright  winter's  day,  through  the 
kind  offices  of  Mme.  de  Tersac's  friend,  the 
Due  de  Bassano,  came  rose-colored  tickets 
of  invitation  to  a  ball  to  be  given  at  the 
Tuileries  in  honor  of  certain  "visiting  sov- 
ereigns." It  was  all  very  well,  Berthe 
thought  joyfully,  for  some  of  her  mother's 
friends,  who  were  moldy  old  Legitimists,  to 
sigh  and  shake  their  heads  over  the  idea  of 
their  accepting.  Mine,  de  Tersac,  immo- 
lating herself  in  an  old  blue  velvet,  with  oft- 
times  cleaned  point  de  Venise,  that  had  seen 
many  a  court  festivity,  had  secured  the 
services  as  escort  of  the  Comte  de  Barrot, 
who,  though  no  lover  of  the  present  court, 
came  sometimes  across  the  Seine  to  look  in 
upon  its  extravagances;  and  with  such  a 
background  of  respectability  even  Mme.  de 
Lagastine  could  not  find  fault. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  29 

Who  shall  sing  of  the  glories  of  our 
heroine's  first  ball?  From  the  moment 
when,  rumpling  herself  into  the  corner 
of  the  brougham  in  order  not  to  crush 
her  young  lady's  tulle,  Mme.  de  Tersac 
called  out  in  her  hoarse  old  voice,  "To 
the  Tuileries,  Adolphe,"  Berthe's  spirit  was 
on  wings. 

At  the  foot  of  the  grand  staircase  of  fifty 
steps,  carpeted  with  crimson  and  lined  on 
either  side  by  the  splendid  phalanx  of  the 
emperor's  Cent  Gardes,  between  whose 
ranks  flowed  a  glittering  stream  of  men  in 
court  costume,  with  swords  and  orders,  and 
women  borne  down  under  the  weight  of 
hereditary  gems,  they  were  met  by  the 
count,  a  stately  vieux  moustache  with  snow- 
white  hair,  whose  eye  kindled  approvingly 
at  sight  of  his  youthful  charge. 

When,  in  the  radiance  of  myriad  wax 
lights,  caressed  by  the  strains  of  Strauss 
waltzes  led  by  Strauss,  they  paused  in  the 


3°  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

great  Salle  de  la  Paix  for  breath,  hustled  on 
every  side  by  a  dazzling,  pushing,  courteous 
multitude,  Berthe's  wonder  found  vent  in 
words. 

"You  must  try  to  fancy  it,"  said  the 
count,  "as  I  saw  this  room  when  the  palace 
was  held  by  the  mob  in  Forty-eight.  I 
suppose  a  young  lady  would  shudder  at  the 
idea  of  the  National  Guards  bivouacking 
here  on  trusses  of  hay,  eating  their  bread  and 
sausage  and  drinking  the  wine  their  majes- 
ties had  left  behind ;  but  to  me  it  was  very 
picturesque." 

"I  am  not  that  kind  of  a  young  lady," 
Berthe  answered.  "Our  own  dining  room 
at  Les  Amandiers,  in  Mississippi,  was  so 
used  by  the  soldiers  during  one  of  the  Fed- 
eral raids.  We  women  kept  ourselves 
locked  in  upstairs  with  loaded  pistols,  which 
we  fortunately  did  not  need.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  long  night  spent  in  listening  to 
their  songs  and  shouts.  When  they  left  us 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  TH'E  SOUTH.  31 

next  day,  it  was  as  if  the  Egyptian  locusts 
had  passed  over  the  place" 

"I  had  forgotten  that  it  is  a  true  daugh- 
ter of  Mars  whom  I  have  the  honor  to 
escort,"  said  the  count.  "Now,  mesdames, 
if  you  please,  we  had  better  push  on  to  the 
Salle  des  Mare"chaux.  Ah  !  what  a  crowd  ! 
It  will  need  a  stronger  arm  than  mine  to 
open  a  way  for  both  of  you." 

"Can  I  be  of  service,  Count?"  asked  a 
gentleman,  against  whom  they  were  thrown 
by  a  buffet  of  the  throng. 

"Ah !  Meester  Ludlow,  you  are  very 
good.  Permit  me  to  introduce  you  to 
Mme.  de  Tersac  and  to  your  charming 
compatriot,  Mees  de  Lagastine.  If  you  will 
give  your  arm  to  mademoiselle.  There. 
En  avant  !  March  !" 

Berthe  saw  the  valiant  count  and  breath- 
less little  Mme.  de  Tersac  borne  away 
from  her  without  resistance.  A  rumor  that 
their  Majesties  had  come  in  swayed  the 


32  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

entire  mass  of  people  in  the  direction  of  the 
Salle  des  Marechaux,  blazing  with  gilded 
fretwork  just  ahead.  Giving  a  side  glance 
at  her  companion,  she  discerned  that  he  was 
tall,  blond,  and  stalwart,  carrying  himself 
with  a  military  air  that  became  him  well. 
In  turn,  his  rather  cold  blue  eyes  were  scan- 
ning  her  with  an  expression  she  could  not 
but  resent. 

"You  did  not  expect  to  be  burdened  with 
a  girl?"  she  said,  with  a  childish  impulse  to 
withdraw  her  arm  from  his. 

"We  will  discuss  that  when  I  have  suc- 
ceeded in  restoring  you  to  your  friends,"  he 
answered  indifferently,  and  then  the  current 
swept  them  on.  In  vain  the  chambellans 
shouted  "  R-r-eculez-vous,  messieurs  et 
dames,  s'il  vous  plait" ;  the  throng  moved 
forward  as  one  man.  It  was  a  crush  in 
which  the  fairest  arms  were  excoriated  by 
contact  with  neighboring  epaulets;  where 
swordhilts  were  pressed  into  adjacent  ribs; 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  33 

where  a  fat  lady,  requesting  a  gentleman  to 
be  good  enough  to  remove  his  finger  from 
her  ear,  was  answered  politely  that  nothing 
would  give  him  greater  pleasure  were  not 
the  thing  physically  impossible  just  then ! 

When,  at  length,  brought  up  against  a 
gilded  railing,  Berthe  found  herself  in  a 
wreck  of  tattered  tulle,  it  was  at  the  mo- 
ment when  Louis  Napoleon  and  Eugenie — 
she  fair  as  a  swan,  radiant  and  gracious, 
aglitter  with  a  thousand  gems — accompanied 
by  their  royal  guests,  were  in  the  act  of 
seating  themselves  upon  their  golden  chairs 
of  state.  Around  them  upon  the  dais  was 
grouped  such  a  constellation  of  dignitaries 
as  made  it  appear  that  all  Europe  and  the 
Orient  were  focussed  upon  the  left  bank  of 
the  Seine.  Berthe,  forgetting  all  besides, 
bloomed  with  excitement,  rained  questions, 
devoured  Ludlow's  information,  and  ended 
by  charming  him  with  her  naivett. 

"You  can  say  you  have  seen  the  Second 


34  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTJf. 

Empire  at  flood  tide  of  glory,  certainly,"  he 
said,  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour. 

"But  I  am  awfully  disappointed  in  its 
chief,"  she  cried.  "He  is  little  and  yel- 
low, and  looks  half  asleep.  Most  of  the 
grandees,  in  fact,  are  disappointing;  but 
their  clothes  and  jewels  are  all  I  could  de- 
sire. Thank  you  so  much  for  enlightening 
my  ignorance.  I  am  only  afraid  I've  bored 
you." 

"Promise  to  let  me  settle  that  score  with 
you  at  another  time,"  he  began,  with  a  smile 
that  reassured  her,  when  an  amused  voice  at 
Berthe's  elbow  made  her  start. 

"Here  you  are,  in  the  front  rank  of  star- 
gazers,"  said  Carrington.  "If  you  knew  at 
what  peril  to  life  and  limb  I  crossed  to  you ! 
Colonel  Ludlow,  I  am  commissioned  by 
Mme.  de  Tersac  to  restore  to  her  your 
charge." 

As  Ludlow  bowed  and  moved  away, 
Berthe  laid  her  hand  on  Carrington's  arm 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  35 

and  whispered  eagerly,  "Who  is  Colonel 
Ludlow?  He  has  been  so  very  kind  to 
me." 

"  Ludlow  ? "  said  Belmont  carelessly, 
"why,  one  of  our  conquerors.  The  best 
fellow  in  the  world." 

"A  Yankee  officer?" 

"Certainly,  and  a  distinguished  one. 
We  had,  when  we  first  met  in  Paris,  been 
figuratively  engaged  in  popping  bullets  at 
each  other  during  the  four  years  past,  but 
are  now  on  amicable  terms." 

"Oh!  how  can  you  jest?"  she  said  in  her 
tragic  way.  "You  who  have  fought  through 
all — you  who  upheld  our  glorious  banner 
till  it  trailed  in  dust.  I  understand  now 
why  I  disliked  him  at  first  sight." 

Fire  flashed  from  her  eyes.  Belmont, 
to  hide  a  smile,  turned  and  looked  at  a 
far  window-seat  shrouded  in  velvet  dotted 
with  golden  bees.  There,  limp  and  yawn- 
ing, sat  Mme.  de  Tersac,  her  lace  torn,  her 


36          A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

poor  blue  velvet  whipped  out  of  shape,  her 
feet  aching,  but  thankful  to  find  a  chair. 
Beside  her,  erect  and  gallant,  the  old  count 
stood  beckoning. 

"I  am  glad,  mademoiselle,  that  you  were 
cared  for  by  my  excellent  friend  Ludlow," 
he  said,  when  the  party  came  again  to- 
gether. "I  felt  safe  in  presenting  to  you  a 
compatriot  so  well  indorsed  by  your  amia- 
ble meenester,  le  General  Deex." 

"He  is  not  my  amiable  minister,"  ex- 
claimed rebel  Berthe  pettishly.  But  she 
felt,  when  she  caught  the  twinkle  in  Bel- 
mont's  eyes,  that  she  had  not  aquitted  her- 
self with  heroic  dignity. 

On  the  morning  of  Christmas  Eve 
Berthe's  light  feet  sped  up  the  stairs,  flight 
after  flight,  to  the  attic  of  Villa  Bois 
Dormant. 

"Entrez"  said  a  sweet  voice,  as  she 
knocked  at  a  door  under  the  eaves. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  37 

Berthe  turned  the  knob  and  found  herself  in 
a  large  room  with  sloping  ceilings,  the  space 
divided  by  screens,  walls,  and  windows,  hung 
with  glazed  chintz  scattered  with  rosebuds 
and  green  leaves,  floor  brightly  waxed,  a 
sunny  window  full  of  birds  and  plants. 
This  was  the  nest  of  Mine.  Letellier, 
Berthe's  chosen  friend  of  all  the  ancients  of 
Bois  Dormant,  a  swarthy,  bright-eyed  little 
lady,  who  had  been  a  prize  pupil  of  Samson 
in  the  Conservatoire  and  had  made  a  suc- 
cessful dtfbut  at  the  Odeon  many  a  long 
year  agone.  Leaving  the  stage,  tempora- 
rily, to  marry,  she  had,  upon  the  birth  of  her 
first  child,  been  stricken  with  a  malady  that 
robbed  her  of  strength  and  voice. 

"We  lived  then  in  a  little  cottage  at 
Asnieres,"  the  old  woman  had  told  Berthe. 
"Thither  came  my  old  associates  to  condole 
with  me ;  Louise,  from  the  Come'die  Fran- 
$aise,  Clementine  from  the  Gaiete".  They 
would  bring  in  at  the  door  a  whiff  of  the  air 


458657 


38          A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

that  intoxicates  me  even  now — the  true  air 
of  the  theater  that  the  actor  does  not  forget. 
They  would  rustle  and  chatter  and  boast 
while  I  would  rock  the  cradle  and  listen,  my 
heart  tugging  at  its  leash.  Oh,  then  it  was 
that  I  seemed  again  to  hear  the  great  wave 
of  applause,  on  which  a  player  rides  into  his 
paradise — I,  who  had  tasted  my  moment  of 
success!" 

"And  what  then,  dear  madame?" 
"Eh!  what  then?  My  tempters  went 
away,  my  boy  awoke  and  cried  for  nourish- 
ment, my  good  husband  came  in  from  his 
work.  We  had  means  enough,  we  loved. 
No,  no,  there  are  sorrows  in  life  more 
poignant  than  to  renounce  ambition.  Mine 
were  to  come.  What  was  I,  after  all, 
but  'encore  une  £toile  qui  file,  file  et 
disparait.'  "• 

"Now  I  know  what  an  artist  you  were — 
you  are!"  cried  the  girl ;  "to  hear  you  say 
that  line  of  Beranger  was  like  the  breath  of 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  39 

an  ^Eolian  harp.  But  tell  me  more  about 
your  life." 

"After  I  was  a  widow  and  had  suffered  in 
many  ways,  I  thought  myself  lucky  to 
secure  this  asylum  under  the  roof-tree  of  a 
quiet  house.  When  I  rented  it,  ma  foi, 
Mme.  Thonet  was  surprised — it  had  been 
used  as  a  garret  only.  I  was  poor,  and 
little  by  little  have  hung  the  walls  with  my 
own  hands,  have  added  books,  flowers,  fur- 
niture, as  you  see.  It  is  a  good  air  that  I 
breathe  here,  and  in  spring  the  treetops  of 
.the  Bois  make  a  green  murmuring  ocean 
beneath  me  as  I  sit  at  the  window  sewing." 

"And  your  son,  madame?  Does  he  come 
on  Sundays  with  his  wife  and  little  ones  to 
take  you  home  to  dinner,  like  the  rest?" 

"No,  my  child,"  the  old  Frenchwoman 
said  gently.  "When  the  emperor  sent 
Maximilian  into  Mexico  my  boy  went  too. 
See,  there  is  all  that  is  left  me  of  my 
son." 


4<5          A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  Berthe's  eyes,  following  the  indica- 
tion of  her  finger,  saw  on  the  wall  a  soldier's 
picture  swathed  in  crape ;  above  it  the  tri- 
color of  France. 

"Ours  is  a  common  grief,  madame.  My 
father  also  lies  in  a  soldier's  grave,"  she 
answered,  bursting  into  the  old  hot  tears 
that  had  seemed  in  Confederate  days  to 
come  from  a  bottomless  fountain.  It  was 
madame,  dry-eyed  and  tender,  who  soothed 
her  into  repose. 

After  that  time  Berthe's  intimacy  with 
the  old  woman  had  rapidly  increased.  Ma- 
dame lent  her  books — first,  grudgingly,  as 
to  a  jeune  fille  of  France — "La  Colombe" 
of  Alexander  Dumas,  pure  as  its  title,  "La 
Tulipe  Noire,"  and  "La  Mare  au  Diable," 
the  lovely  idyl  of  George  Sand ;  afterward, 
with  astonishment  at  her  maturity  of  taste, 
dramatists,  ancient  and  modern,  from  whose 
pages  Berthe  was  bidden  to  read  and  recite. 
In  return,  Berthe  saved  for  her  fruit  and 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  41 

bonbons,  welcomed  as  a  canary  welcomes 
sugar  in  his  cage ;  and  the  girl's  pretty  fash- 
ion of  stealing  in  with  violets  for  the  hang- 
ing cup  beneath  the  soldier's  portrait  on 
the  wall  sealed  to  hers  indissolubly  the  old 
woman's  loving  heart. 

To-day  Berthe  was  in  high  spirits.  Car- 
rington  had  written  to  propose  to  Mme. 
Letellier  and  herself  to  attend  with  him 
the  midnight  mass  at  the  Madeleine.  To 
please  her,  to  waken  that  bright  look  of  girl- 
ish joy  in  her  face,  Belmont  was  even  pre- 
pared to  run  away  from  a  dinner  of  men  to 
which  he  was  engaged,  and  sit  half  the 
night  on  a  hard  chair  in  the  surge  of  a 
crowd  combining  sensationalism  with  en- 
forced religious  observance. 

Berthe  found  her  friend  in  street  costume, 
her  face  pale,  her  eyes  red  with  weeping. 

"  Tenez,  mon  enfant,  it  is  the  anniversary 
of  my  greatest  sorrow,"  the  old  woman  said. 
"Since  early  this  morning  I  have  been  in 


42  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

the  Chapelle  Expiatoire  to  pray  for  my  lost 
Elise." 

"A  daughter,  too?  All  you  loved  dead? 
Poor,  poor  madame !" 

A  look  of  anguish  came  into  the  mother's 
face. 

"She  is  not  dead.  It  would  have  been 
better  had  she  died.  It  is  a  whole  year 
since  she  left  me,"  she  cried  chokingly. 

Berthe  started,  shuddering.  For  the  life 
of  her  she  could  not  govern  the  chill  that 
held  her  in  its  grip.  The  stricken  mother, 
offering  no  protest,  simply  bent  her  head 
forward  and  stood  waiting.  Then  blushing 
hotly,  and  with  a  keen  impulse  of  remorse, 
Berthe  exclaimed  "  Oh !  I  was  cruel  to  let 
you  see  my  heart." 

"Not  so,  my  child.  It  is  part  of  my 
cross  that  I  must  daily  and  nightly  bear," 
the  widow  answered  gently.  "But,  oh!  to 
lie  down  and  to  rise  up  knowing  that  this 
great  city  holds  hidden  one  so  dear,  one  that 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  43 

no  hand  of  mine  may  rescue.  Ah  me!  God's 
will  be  done.  My  petite  Berthe  will  forgive 
me  that  I  had  not  courage  to  tell  her  this 
before.  She  will  forget  the  poor  sinner  who 
is  part  of  me;  she  will  not  withhold  from 
me  her  love?" 

"Trust  me,"  said  Berthe. 

Since  ten  o'clock  they  had  been  seated  in 
the  nave  of  the  vast  church,  in  a  semi-dark- 
ness that  hid  the  tracery  of  carved  stone, 
the  mosaic  of  many-colored  marbles,  the 
luster  of  gilded  chapels.  Around  them  the 
crowd  gathered  to  the  utmost  limits  of  the 
interior — a  strange,  mixed  company  of  dev- 
otees, from  the  boulevardier  fini  in  evening 
clothes  reeking  with  fumes  of  cigars  and 
wine,  kneeling  side  by  side  with  the  peasant 
woman  in  her  turret  cap,  to  the  petite  dame 
in  sables,  telling  her  beads  with  downcast 
eyes  at  the  elbow  of  some  workman,  swart 
and  grimy  spite  of  his  new-washed  blouse  of 


44          A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

blue.  Through  the  night  these  people  were 
to  troop  up  continually  to  the  high  altar, 
scattering,  after  the  most  solemn  commun- 
ion of  the  year,  to  resume  their  several 
avocations.  Berthe,  heedless  of  incongrui- 
ties, rapt  in  a  trance  of  pleasure,  sat 
with  Belmont  beside  the  old  madame,  who 
for  the  most  part  knelt,  lost  in  devotion, 
upon  the  marble  flags.  At  no  time  had  the 
girl  felt  so  near,  so  deliciously  at  rest  with 
him  to  whom  she  had  now  come  to  surren- 
der the  love  of  her  maiden  heart.  They 
spoke  rarely,  to  exchange  whispers  in  which 
each  strove  to  repress  the  trembling  of 
happy  voices  fraught  with  tenderness. 

To  Berthe  it  was  as  if  they  two  had 
secured  some  little  island  around  which  an 
ocean  surged  to  cut  them  off  from  human- 
ity less  blest.  To  Belmont,  alas !  this  was 
but  a  time  of  indulgence  too  precious  to  be 
given  up,  too  perilous  to  be  repeated. 

Then,  from  behind  the  sculptured  angels 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  45 

of  the  high  altar  issued  a  blast  as  of  silver 
trumpets,  and  over  the  kneeling  multitude 
burst  a  flood  of  light.  During  the  pageant 
of  the  mass  a  man's  voice  chanted  Adolphe 
Adam's  "Noel": 

"  Minuit,  Chretien  !     C'est  1'heure  solennelle 
Ou  I'Homme-Dieu  descenclit  sur  la  terre." 

Berthe  sat  spellbound  until  the  triumph- 
ing refrain : 

"  Noel !  Noel !  Voici  le  Redempteur  !  " 

swelled  to  the  full  force  of  a  glorious  bary- 
tone, and  the  organ  caught  up  and  swept 
away  the  strain. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  touched  the  gate  of 
heaven,"  she  whispered  to  Carrington,  who 
smiled  and  answered  that  the  famous  singer 
from  the  opera  house  was  in  very  good  form 
to-night,  certainly.  Belmont  did  not  care 
how  long  this  sort  of  thing  went  on,  so  that 
he  might  watch  the  girl's  face  glowing  and 
paling  like  an  aurora  borealis. 


46  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Suddenly  she  looked  at  a  point  near  one 
of  the  chapels  at  the  side. 

"Anyone  you  know?"  he  asked  carelessly. 

"The  strangest  thing,"  she  said;  "I  felt  as 
if  someone  were  impelling  me  to  look,  and, 
over  there,  I  saw  such  a  sad  white  face  gaz- 
ing at  us — a  girl,  beautifully  dressed,  with 
golden  hair;  there,  do  you  see?  no,  she  has 
vanished  in  the  crowd." 

"I  saw  her — rather  an  unusual  type  of 
her  class — a  little  'off/  probably.  Please, 
when  you  have  any  glances  to  bestow,  turn 
them  this  way." 

"Hush!"  said  Berthe  reprovingly.  Dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  the  service  she  could 
feel  nothing  but  the  fullness  of  content. 
As  they  came  out  into  the  struggling  dawn 
of  Christmas  morning,  through  the  vestibule 
that  was  a  few  years  later  to  be  the  scene  of 
the  Communist  slaughter  by  the  troops,  she 
saw  Colonel  Ludlow  with  a  party  of  Ameri- 
cans. To  her  present  exalted  state  of  mind 
he  was  an  interruption,  a  cloud.  While 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  47 

bestowing  on  him  a  frosty  little  nod,  she 
wondered  at  a  certain  indefinable  shadow  in 
his  eyes,  which,  from  a  person  privileged 
to  bestow  on  her  compassion,  might  have 
been  interpreted  into  expressing  that  emo- 
tion. 

Carrington  put  the  ladies  into  a  fiacre  to 
set  off  on  their  long  drive  to  Bois  Dormant. 
Standing  upon  the  sidewalk,  hat  in  hand, 
the  familiar  brilliant  smile  upon  his  face, 
Berthe's  last  glimpse  of  him  filled  her  heart 
with  a  proud  joy. 

To  have  seen  the  society  of  Villa  Bois 
Dormant  at  its  best — before  the  siege  of  the 
Versailles  troops  in  1871  laid  low  the  quaint 
old  domicile  and  worked  havoc  in  the  bow- 
ery streets  surrounding  it — one  should  have 
waited  until  evening  brought  out  the  an- 
tique butterflies  in  what  they  called  their 
"toilets  for  the  day."  At  the  dejeuner  de 
midi  the  groups  around  the  tables  in  the 
great  bare  dining  room  resembled  a  collec- 


48  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

tion  of  shrunken  chrysalids.  Equipped  in 
skull  caps,  camisoles,  curl  papers,  snuffy 
coats,  or  dingy  short  gowns  —  generally 
omitting  wigs  and  teeth — the  old  creatures 
mumbled  and  grumbled,  compared  symp- 
toms, mixed  doses,  scolded  Mme.  la  Propri- 
£taire  and  her  minions,  and  often'  went 
through  the  ceremony  of  threatening  to 
change  their  quarters  to  the  pension  across 
the  way. 

It  was  at  dinner,  when  the  lamps  were 
lighted  and  some  vases  of  artificial  flowers 
lent  to  the  tables  a  festal  air,  that  the  old 
ladies  emerged  in  gayest  attire  of  silk  and 
velvet,  with  tiers  of  snowy  curls  or  frontlets 
of  jetty  black;  th'e  men,  shaven  and  spruce, 
in  tight-fitting  black  coats  showing  the  inev- 
itable red  button  of  honor  on  the  breast ; 
all  chattering,  laughing,  bandying  jests  and 
compliments,  offering  snuffboxes,  and  wav- 
ing handkerchiefs  of  flaring  silk. 

Christmas   week   having    passed   without 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  49 

especial  celebration,  the  dawn  of  New 
Year's  day  woke  up,  in  common  with  all 
Paris,  the  Villa  Bois  Dormant.  Directly 
after  the  first  breakfast,  set  in  a  procession 
of  servants  and  tradespeople,  even  including 
the  merry  little  Auvergnat  cobbler  who  had 
once  mended  a  rip  in  Mile.  Berthe's  shoe,  to 
offer  compliments  and  smiles  and  to  receive 
reward  according  to  the  limit  of  the  giver's 
purse.  Then  the  boarders,  attired  as  for 
Sunday  junketings  abroad,  came  fluttering 
out  into  the  sunshine  of  the  green-walled 
court.  The  air  was  full  of  shrill  pipings  of 
good-fellowship.  Next,  flinging  wide  the 
gilded  gates  of  the  porte-cochere,  Belgian 
Antoine  stood,  with  his  crumpled  face  re- 
laxed into  a  broad  smile  of  welcome.  In 
trooped  a  gay  medley  of  married  sons  and 
daughters,  leading  or  carrying  their  little 
ones,  each  laden  with  a  New  Year's  offering 
of  flowers  or  sweets.  To  find  out  bon  papa, 
to  surprise  bonne  maman,  was  the  order  of 


50  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

the  hour.  Nothing  was  heard  but  outcries 
of  pleasure  and  caressing.  Bearded  men 
kissed  each  other  on  both  cheeks,  kissed  the 
grandparents,  kissed  the  children ;  when  the 
tumult  subsided  there  arose  the  quavering 
exclamations  of  the  old  people  upon  the 
schoolboy's  growth  and  uniform,  the  baby's 
teeth,  the  young  matron's  bravery  of  lace 
and  jet  and  fur.  A  ceremony  not  omitted 
was  the  formal  presentation  to  fellow  board- 
ers of  families  known,  through  the  daily 
gossip  of  Bois  Dormant,  from  A  to  Z.  And 
at  last,  after  a  visit  to  the  quarters  of  bon 
papa  or  bonne  maman  in  search  of  ttrenncs 
hidden  there,  the  merry  crowd  dispersed. 
Bonneted,  cloaked,  cosseted  by  their  young, 
the  boarders  were  carried  off  in  triumph  to 
finish  the  day  en  fete. 

Well  pleased  to  be  sought  by  Berthe, 
Mme.  Letellier  that  afternoon  quitted  her 
solitude  beneath  the  eaves  to  walk  with  the 
young  girl  along  the  boulevards,  where  the 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  51 

whole  bright  world  of  Paris  seemed  to  have 
flung  itself  upon  the  street  in  a  delirium  of 
fun.  In  Berthe  the  Southern  gayety  of 
nature,  ever  quick  to  be  aroused,  made 
instant  answer  to  the  challenge  of  this 
brilliant  atmosphere  touched  but  not 
chilled  by  frost,  the  booths  edging  for  miles 
the  sidewalks,  the  ambulating  venders — of 
hot  drinks  carried  in  reservoirs  upon  their 
backs,  of  flowers,  of  "gauffres  et  plaisirs, 
M'sieurs  et  Mesdames" — the  black  throngs 
of  sightseers,  the  bands  of  maskers,  the 
incessant  ripple  of  merriment  tinkling  along 
the  lines.  Herself  an  unconscious  picture 
in  the  toque  and  fur-bordered  pelisse  of 
Polish  cut,  all  russet-brown  in  tint  save  for 
the  red  rose  nestling  at  her  breast  and  the 
clear  shining  of  her  happy  face,  she  walked 
with  a  free,  quick  stride  with  which  ma- 
dame's  mouse-like  steps  had  much  ado  to 
keep  company. 

Madame,  shrewd  and  anxious,  had  a  fair 


52  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

suspicion  of  the  origin  of  some  part  of 
Berthe's  exhilaration  on  this  Jour  de  I" An. 
That  morning  had  arrived,  with  a  card  from 
Carrington,  whom  she  had  failed  to  see 
since  the  night  of  the  midnight  mass,  a 
basket  of  gilded  osier  overflowing  with  red 
roses  and  white  lilacs ;  after  it,  a  box  sent 
by  express  from  Nice  from  the  gardens  of 
the  poet  florist,  Alphonse  Karr,  in  which, 
bedded  in  large  and  luscious  violets,  lay  a 
tangle  of  wet  jasmine  that  might  have 
twined  on  the  galleries  of  Les  Aman- 
diers. 

"Who  could  have  divined  my  longing  to 
smell  jasmine  again?"  Berthe  had  won- 
dered, laying  the  sprays  against  her  cheek, 
drinking  in  the  familiar  fragrance,  shutting 
her  eyes  to  dream  of  her  ruined  home. 

"Mamma,  madame,  see  here!"  she  had 
cried  eagerly  to  her  two  observers.  "Not  a 
note  or  a  card  to  say  who  has  made  my 
New  Year  dawn  so  happily." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  53 

"Some  one  of  our  Southern  friends,  no 
doubt,"  said  Mme.  de  Lagastine,  looking 
up  for  a  moment  with  lackluster  eyes. 
"One,  two,  three  greens  and  one  red.  You 
grow  more  like  your  father,  child.  Will 
you  -remember  to  tell  the  person  of  the 
house  that  I  cannot  put  up  with  the  draught 
from  that  window  another  day." 

Although  Berthe  wore  loyally  one  of  Bel- 
mont's  roses,  "the  scent  of  that  jasmine 
flower"  followed  her  throughout  the  wintry 
walk.  It  was,  therefore,  with  not  only  sur- 
prise but  distaste  that  she  found  herself 
accosted  in  the  thickest  of  the  throng  by 
the  man  of  all  others  least  in  touch  with  her 
happy  reverie.  Ludlow,  who  could  not  well 
have  failed  to  read  her  impulse  in  her  art- 
less face,  wasted  no  time  in  idle  ceremony. 

"You  will  pardon  me,  I  hope,"  he  said  in 
French  to  include  madame,  "but  I  don't 
think  you  ladies  should  walk  along  this 
square  alone.  There  is  a  party  of  masquer- 


54  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

aders  just  ahead  who  arc  likely  to  get  into 
mischief  with  the  police  if  they  keep  on 
their  present  line.  If  you  don't  mind,  I  shall 
go  with  you  until  you  have  passed  the 
spot." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Berthe  briefly,  while 
madame  poured  out  more  bounteous  courte- 
sies. To  recede  was  worse  than  to  go  on. 
Ludlow,  keeping  close  ahead  of  Bcrthe, 
madame  following,  used  his  shoulder  as  a 
wedge  to  open  a  way  through  the  multitude 
now  unpleasantly  astir.  For  it  needs  but 
such  a  trifle  to  shift  the  temper  of  a  Paris 
crowd  from  gayety  to  anger.  A  bourgeois, 
insufficiently  excusing  himself  for  treading 
on  his  neighbor's  toe  in  his  zeal  to  push  for- 
ward to  see  he  knows  not  what,  may  in  an 
instant  transform  these  smiling  revelers  to  a 
semblance  of  the  human  tigers  of  the  past 
tragedies  of  Paris  streets.  Startled  by  the 
ominous  mutter  of  the  excited  throng, 
Berthe  instinctively  glanced  at  the  house- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  55 

front  nearest  them,  hoping  to  find  a  refuge. 
On  the  balcony  above,  a  party  of  people  in 
street  dress  had  come  out  to  look  at  the 
panorama  of  the  boulevard.  Behind  the 
others,  leaning  down  with  the  bright  look  of 
interest  Berthe  knew  so  well,  was  Belmont 
Carrington  in  close  conversation  with  a 
woman. 

"Handsome,  well  bred,  well  dressed,  not 
too  young,"  was  Berthe's  mental  inventory. 
"How  many  friends  he  has  we  do  not  know! 
I  am  glad  he  does  not  see  me  hustled  in 
this  crowd.  I  will  not  look  again  because  — 
well,  because  I  want  to  look."  At  this 
point  of  her  speculation  she  lost  count  of 
minor  incidents.  The  police,  interposing, 
had  forced  a  vent  ahead  for  the  passage  of 
the  strugglers.  A  portion  of  the  crowd  sur- 
rounding the  drunken  maskers  was  pushed 
between  the  booths  into  the  street.  A 
scream  in  a  woman's  voice  was  followed  by 
oaths,  shouts,  the  trampling  of  horses,  a 


56  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

fresh  rush  of  the  crowd.  Berthe,  carried 
resistlessly  toward  the  point  of  excitement, 
found  herself,  to  her  dismay,  caught  up  in 
Ludlow's  arms,  and,  to  avoid  being  violently 
hurled  upon  the  asphalt,  held  for  a  long  mo- 
ment clasped  to  his  breast.  The  words  of 
reluctant  gratitude  tempered  with  shame- 
faced rebuke  that,  when  she  was  set  in 
safety  down,  rushed  to  her  lips  were  silenced 
by  the  stern  reality  confronting  her.  Al- 
most at  her  feet  lay  a  young  lad,  pale  and 
lifeless,  his  short  golden  hair  brushing  the 
knee  of  the  gendarme  who  had  dragged  him 
from  beneath  the  hoofs  of  a  pair  of  spirited 
horses  attached  to  a  brougham,  in  which  sat 
two  gentlemen  on  their  way  to  make  calls  of 
the  Jour  de  I'An,  laden  with  costly  flowers 
and  bonbonnieres.  Upon  her  first  glance  at 
the  still  face,  shadowed  by  sunny  locks  from 
which  the  cap  had  fallen  away,  Berthe,  with 
a  thrill,  recognized  the  features  of  the  girl 
whose  mournful  gaze  she  had  encountered 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  57 

at  the  Madeleine.  The  puzzle  was  made 
clear  when,  uttering  a  strange  cry  that 
pierced  the  bystanders'  hearts  with  sym- 
pathy, Mme.  Letellier  ran  forward  and  fell 
upon  her  knees  beside  the  inanimate  figure, 

calling  out,  "Elise,  ma  fille,  Elise!" 

i 
"It  is  her  daughter,  who  has  been  lost," 

Berthe  whispered  tremblingly  in  Ludlow's 
ear.  "Oh,  what  shall  we  do?" 

"A  little  actress  of  the  Bouffes,  no  doubt, 
who  is  masquerading  in  boy's  clothes,"  said 
a  bystander. 

"Mats  non,  my  little  cabbage,  she  is  not 
dead,"  panted  a  fat  bourgeoise,  whose  hus- 
band had  elbowed  for  her  a  way  to  the  front 
ranks  of  lookers-on.  "Tiens,  Joseph,  she 
breathes.  Madame  her  mother  will  have 
difficulty  to  remove  her  from  this  crowd." 

In  the  confusion  of  the  scene  Berthe  felt 
rather  than  saw  that  Ludlow's  chief  concern 
was  to  withdraw  her  from  contact  and  iden- 
tification with  the  centers  of  interest. 


5 8          A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"You  treat  me  like  a  child,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "What  can  it  matter  beside  her 
trouble?  Oh,  I  must  go  to  poor  madame!" 

"Madame  would  be  the  last  person  to 
desire  your  presence  now,"  he  said  peremp- 
torily urging  her  back  into  the  throng  upon 
the  sidewalk. 

"I  have  never  been  dictated  to  before;  I 
have  been  many  times  able  to  help  in.  emer- 
gencies ;  I  cannot  leave  my  poor  old  friend 
in   such  a   dreadful   strait,"   she   protested, 
fairly    vexed. 

"It  is  impossible  that  you  should  mix 
with  this  affair,"  he  returned  briefly.  "If 
you  will  remain  here  in  the  doorway  beside 
some  of  the  family  folk  who  have  taken 
refuge  from  the  crowd,  I  shall  go  and  do  all 
that  can  be  done." 

Conquered,  though  far  from  convinced, 
by  the  quiet  decision  of  his  manner,  Berthe 
obeyed  with  the  best  grace  at  her  command. 
Her  heart  swelled  with  pity  for  her  friend, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  59 

and  her  conscience  accused  her  of  cowardice 
in  holding  back  from  active  service  in  the 
poor  woman's  behalf.  Waiting  impatiently, 
she  at  length  saw  Ludlow  pushing  toward 
her  through  the  crowd. 

"There  has  been  a  delay,"  he  explained. 
"The  men  whose  horses  ran  her  down  were 
at  first  inclined  to  do  everything  necessary 
in  the  case,  but  the  testimony  of  bystanders 
and  of  the  gendarme  who  witnessed  it 
unites  in  saying  that  the  wretched  creature 
threw  herself  deliberately  in  the  way  of  the 
approaching  carriage.  The  pol'ice  had  just 
warned  her  to  behave  with  more  discretion, 
when  she  broke  away  from  the  officer  whose 
hand  was  on  her  shoulder,  and  it  was  over 
in  a  flash.  Under  these  circumstances  the 
owners  of  the  horses  decline  to  interfere, 
and  the  case  must  be  left  to  take  the  usual 
course." 

"Will  she  die?"  asked  Berthe. 

"That  cannot  be  known  until  they  get  her 


60  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

to  the  hospital.  The  poor  mother,  who  is 
quite  composed,  thinks  of  everything,  and 
has  besought  me  to  keep  you  apart  from 
them,  for  your  mother's  sake,  she  says. 
Now,  if  you  can  rely  on  me  to  do  what  is 
best  for  you  in  this  trying  emergency,  I  will 
see  you  safely  home,  and  I  promise  to  look 
out  afterward  for  Mme.  Letellier  to  the  ex- 
tent of  my  ability." 

"But  there  is  something  else,"  she  said 
gratefully.  "I  am  sure  madame  has  little 
or  no  money,  and  if  you  will  please  take  my 
purse  to  her— 

"I  have  attended  to  all  that,"  he  inter- 
rupted.  "They  are  to  have  every  consider- 
ation that  the  authorities  will  allow." 

"Thank  you  a  thousand  times,"  cried 
Berthe,  flashing  upon  him  one  of  her  enthu- 
siastic glances.  "If  you  knew  the  poor 
woman's  story  you  would  realize  how  well 
your  kindness  is  bestowed.  And  you  have 
given  me  the  only  comfort  possible  in  hav- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  61 

ing  to  turn  my  back  and  leave  her  in  such 
distress." 

"You  could  do  nothing  whatever  except 
in  a  sentimental  sense,"  he  replied ;  "and  a 
Paris  street  crowd  on  a  fete  day  is  hardly 
the  place  for  the  exhibition  of  a  young 
girl's  sympathies.  Be  sure  that  Mme. 
Letellier — whose  face  carries  its  own  sad 
story  —  will  be  best  relieved  by  having 
you  returned  promptly  to  your  mother's 
care." 

By  the  time  he  had  secured  a  cab  all 
trace  of  the  episode — a  page  torn  from 
the  daybook  of  Paris  life — had  been  swept 
from  the  street,  and,  renewed  in  merri- 
ment, the  sparkling  throng  poured  up  and 
down  the  boulevards.  Shocked  and  sad- 
dened beyond  expression,  Berthe  was  in 
no  mood  for  making  conversation,  and  the 
drive  along  the  Champs  £lysees  and  the 
Avenue  de  la  Grande  Arme"e  to  Neuilly 
passed  almost  in  silence.  Certainly,  to  the 


62  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

handsome  and  distinguished  young  officer 
who  had  put  himself  about  to  perform  such 
acts  of  kindness,  the  sense  of  virtue  must 
have  been  its  own  reward.  Berthe,  in  one 
corner  of  the  fiacre,  her  hands  clasped  in 
her  muff  when  she  was  not  mopping  her 
eyes  from  time  to  time,  thought  alternately 
of  the  mother  and  child  so  strangely  re- 
united and  of  Belmont's  attitude  toward  the 
pretty,  stylish  woman  with  the  tired  look  in 
her  eyes,  who  had  appeared  somehow  to 
appropriate  his  talk.  After  passing  the  bar- 
riere  she  roused  from  these  meditations  to 
a  sense  of  courtesy  withheld. 

"You  will  allow  me  to  present  you  to  my 
mother,  Colonel  Ludlow?"  she  said  form- 
ally. "The  obligation  you  have  placed  us 
under  is  so  great 

"That's  a  small  matter,"  he  said,  smiling. 
"But  I  should  like  to  feel  that  I  have  carried 
out  Mme.  Letellier's  wish  literally ;  and  I 
suppose,"  he  added,  hesitating,  "les  con- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  63 

venances  of  a  French  pension  would  be  bet- 
ter satisfied." 

"Oh,  I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  cried 
Berthe  scornfully.  "You  cannot  imagine 
what  it  is  for  a  girl  who  has  grown  up  in 
America  in  war  time  to  be  hedged  in  by  all 
these  petty  proprieties.  But  you  are  right. 
The  Villa  Bois  Dormant  must  be  propi- 
tiated. Luckily  the  place  is  almost  de- 
serted at  this  hour,  and  most  of  them  will 
be  spared  the  shock  of  seeing  me  arrive 
alone  with  you.  As  old  Mme.  Jerome  told 
me  the  other  day,  about  my  crossing  the 
courtyard  with  the  upholsterer,  much  is 
pardoned  to  an  American  'young  miss,' 
brought  up  to  roam  unattended  in  the 
virgin  forests  of  her  pays  sauvage!' 

There  was,  after  all,  only  the  old  porter 
to  be  scandalized  as  their  cab  rolled  into 
the  courtyard.  Mme.  de  Lagastine,  com- 
ing out  of  her  silks  and  wools  to  hear 
Berthe's  excited  narrative,  received  Colonel 


64  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Ludlow  with  polite  frigidity.  To  her  he 
was  the  incarnate  type  of  wrongs  and  losses 
that  a  slight  service  to  her  daughter  could 
not  put  out  of  sight.  Ludlow,  lingering  for 
a  moment  before  the  grate  with  its  heaped- 
up  billets  of  wood,  an  extravagance  of  the 
American  ladies  styled  by  their  fellow 
lodgers  a  "feu  ttenfer"  felt  an  impulse  of 
strong  compassion  for  the  child  whose  sole 
protector  was  this  cold,  impassive  creature, 
so  locked  in  from  human  sympathies. 
Promising  Berthe  to  send  her  early  word  of 
the  condition  of  Mme.  Letellier's  affairs,  and 
receiving  a  perhaps  tardy,  but  certainly  grat- 
ifying acknowledgment  of  her  indebtedness 
to  him,  in  a  smile  that  was  like  a  sunburst, 
he  took  his  leave. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  getting  to  like  him," 
she  meditated,  while  sitting  that  night  in  the 
light  of  the  dying  fire,  combing  her  dusky 
locks.  "That  is,  if  I  were  not  a  tiny  bit 
afraid  of  him ;  and  I  don't  like  to  be  afraid. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  65 

Belmont,  now,  has  such  a  lovely  sunny 
nature  one  feels  like  basking  in  his  neigh- 
borhood. He  draws  to  him  every  heart 
and  holds  it.  Ah  me,  I  had  hoped,  until 
just  a  little  while  ago,  that  he  would  find 
time  to  come  to  us  to-day.  Perhaps  those 
people  were  friends  just  arrived,  to  whom 
he  was  obliged  to  show  civility.  I  shall  tell 
him,  though,  how  devoted  that  little  tete-a- 
tete  behind  the  rest  appeared.  She  is  too 
old.  She  looks  hard  to  please,  and  cynical. 
Oh,  what  does  it  matter?  How  he  will 
chaff  me  for  my  foolishness." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  had  received 
from  Mine.  Letellier  a  note,  penciled  in  the 
hospital,  informing  her  of  a  shade  of  im- 
provement in  the  condition  of  the  patient, 
who  was,  however,  seriously  injured  and 
might  not  survive. 

"The  commissionaire  who  carries  this 
takes  also  a  line  to  Mme.  Thonet,  who  will 
send  what  I  need,"  the  note  went  on  to  say. 


66  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


"Until  God  wills  that  her  misery  shall  pass 
into  His  keeping,  my  place  is  at  her  side. 
It  is  thanks  to  noble  M.  Ludlow  that  I  and 
my  poor  unfortunate  are  treated  here  with 
high  consideration.  When  I  pray  for  her 
whom  the  good  God  has  rendered  into  my 
longing  arms — for  you,  tender  child,  who 
have  blossomed  upon  my  solitary  pathway 
to  the  tomb — must  I  not  also  include  him, 
this  stranger  who  has  poured  upon  me  a 
bounty  so  undeserved,  so  lavish?" 

"Poor,  dear  madame!"  thought  Berthe, 
weaving  her  veil  of  hair  into  plaits  that,  as 
she  stood,  touched  the  hem  of  her  trailing 
skirts,  "hers  is  a  grateful  heart.  He  has 
behaved  splendidly,  if  he  is  a  Yankee  colo- 
nel. Few  men  would  have  felt  called  on  to 
do  so  much  for  perfect  strangers.  Perhaps 
he  went  into  the  war  so  young  that  he  was 
not  entirely  responsible.  Maybe  he  is  con- 
scious of  wrong  done,  and  is  trying  to  atone 
to  the  South  through  me.  When  I  think 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  67 

that  he  actually  held  me  in  his  arms,  even  if 
it  was  to  save  me  from  being  crushed,  I  feel 
so  angry  and  ashamed.  If  he  had  ever 
heard  half  I've  said  against  them,  he'd  have 
dropped  me  quick  enough.  Belmont  will 
laugh  at  me,  I  know." 

A  tap  at  the  door  withdrew  Berthe  from  the 
incidents  of  her  eventful  day  to  admit  Hen- 
riette,  the  cherry-cheeked  maid  of  all  work, 
yawning  and  holding  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"It  has  just  arrived,  mademoiselle,  and 
the  porter  is  in  a  temper  incredible  because 
he  was  called  after  ten  o'clock." 

"Give  it  to  me.  I  will  make  peace  with 
M.  Antoine  to-morrow,"  Berthe  cried,  recog- 
nizing upon  the  envelope  the  handwriting 
of  Belmont  Carrington.  When  again  alone, 
for  a  moment  she  held  her  treasure,  yearn- 
ing over  it,  yet  begrudging  herself  the  taste 
of  it ;  then,  to  make  herself  amends,  tore  it 
open  in  hot  haste  and  read  its  contents  with 
a  fast  throbbing  heart. 


68  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"To-night,  by  the  midnight  train,"  wrote 
Belmont,  "I  start  for  London,  to  be  absent 
some  two  weeks  on  business  for  the  firm.  I 
am  writing  this  lest  you  should  wonder  why 
I  have  not  in  person  offered  you  such  good 
wishes  for  the  year  as  my  poor  flowers  have 
left  unexpressed.  Think  anything  but  that 
I  have  forgotten — the  memory  of.  those  last 
hours  spent  with  you  has  hardly  been  ab- 
sent from  my  thoughts.  That  I  have  not 
dared  to  tell  you  so,  that  I  am  goaded  by 
the  inevitable  as  man  never  was  before, 
makes  this  letter  the  most  difficult  one  to 
frame  that  I  have  ever  attempted.  A 
dozen  times  I  have  written  and  destroyed 
it,  and  after  all  I  can  only  write  the  bitter 
word  farewell." 

"What  is  it?  I  cannot  understand;" 
then  brightly,  "ah,  how  he  loves  me!"  cried 
unsuspecting  Berthe.  "I  can  bear  not  see- 
ing him  to-day,  to  be  made  to  feel  this  so. 
He  will  come  back,  and  then — and  then — 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  69 

who  would  have  believed  that  I  could  give 
Belmont  such  pain?" 

All  else  forgetting,  she  sat  and  pondered 
over  the  embers  of  the  fire  until  the  chill  of 
waning  night  sent  her  into  the  refuge  of  her 
bed.  Then,  remembering  that  she  had 
failed  to  carry  her  vases  of  violets  and  jas- 
mine into  the  antechamber  for  the  night, 
she  went  out  again  into  the  little  salon,  to 
be  met  by  a  gush  of  fragrance  that  might 
have  been  blown  on  a  wind  from  Les 
Amandiers. 

"Belmont  must  have  sent  them,"  was  her 
last  waking  thought ;  "he  only  could  have 
known  what  would  make  me  so  exquisitely 
glad." 

January  set  in  bitter  cold,  and  from  all 
parts  of  the  Continent  came  reports  of  im- 
peded industry,  blocked  travel,  starved 
game  driven  from  the  woods  to  die  upon 
the  doorstones  of  villages,  flocks  of  birds 


7°  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

dropping  frozen  by  the  wayside ;  of  a  cattle 
train  snow-bound  in  the  Forest  of  Ardennes 
attacked  by  gaunt  wolves,  kept  at  bay  all 
night  by  the  engineer  and  his  assistants,  in- 
trenched in  the  fourgon  ;  heroes  who  doubt- 
less felt  little  inclined  to  cry  out,  with  the 
duke, 

Here  feel  we  not  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  season's  difference. 

There  were  fierce  storms,  and  the  coasts 
of  France  and  England  were  stre\vn  with 
wrecks.  But  inside  of  indomitably  gay 
Paris  people  laughed  defiance  at  the 
weather.  The  chilled  alleys  of  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  were  filled  daily  with  promenad- 
ing crowds.  Babies,  strapped  upon  lace- 
trimmed  pillows,  were  dandled  by  white- 
capped  nursemaids  who  sat  upon  iron 
benches.  Punch  and  Judy  pursued  their 
eternal  drama  with  the  hangman  and  the 
crocodile,  before  audiences  eternally  enter- 
tained. On  every  lake  skaters  swarmed. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  71 

Berthe,  bringing  back  winter  roses  upon  her 
pale  cheeks,  walked  daily  in  the  Bois, 
attended  by  her  mother's  maid.  She 
missed  sorely  the  congenial  companionship 
of  Mme.  Letellier,  still  a  prisoner  at  the 
bedside  of  her  child.  Mme.  de  Tersac, 
wrapped  to  the  nose  in  furs,  ventured  but 
rarely  to  Villa  Bois  Dormant ;  and  the 
young  girl  was  obliged  to  decline  overtures 
and  invitations  from  the  rest  of  their  friends 
to  vary  her  solitary  life.  At  home,  when 
not  engaged  in  reading  aloud  to  her  mother 
from  the  dreary  lives  of  saints,  which  formed 
the  intellectual  aliment  of  Mme.  de  Laga- 
stine,  Berthe's  resource  was  to  mount  up  to 
Mme.  Letellier's  deserted  haunt  and,  kind- 
ling a  few  sticks  with  a  boule  de  re"sine  in 
the  little  stove,  to  read  or  recite  the 
dramatic  passages  acquired  under  the  tui- 
tion of  her  dear  old  friend. 

Twelve  days  after  Christmas  occurs  the 
fete  cherished  by  Parisian  bourgeoisie,  "the 


72  A  DAUGHTER  Of  THE  SOUTH. 

Feast  of  Kings."  To  prepare  for  it,  Villa 
Bois  Dormant  put  forth  its  best  endeavor. 
Floors  were  rewaxed,  furniture  polished, 
lamps  and  candlesticks  borrowed  from  the 
boarders,  the  salon  and  dining  room  decked 
with  garlands  of  evergreen  and  paper  flow- 
ers, card  tables  were  set,  a  mysterious 
punch,  pink  and  sickly,  was  mixed,  many 
little  cakes  were  ordered  in  from  the  confec- 
tioner, forests  of  curl  papers  appeared  nod- 
ding over  the  breakfast  table.  Home  for 
the  holiday  arrived  Th£r£sine,  the  youthful 
granddaughter  of  Mme.  la  Propri£taire, 
whose  advent  was  hailed  by  the  old  people 
much  as  that  of  a  monkey  loosed  to  work 
his  will.  The're'sine,  aged  six,  had  a  beauti- 
ful rosy  little  face  framed  in  a  close-bordered 
cap,  a  voice  like  the  enchanted  flute,  and 
the  temper  of  an  imp.  Before  she  had 
been  an  hour  under  the  grandmaternal  roof 
Bois  Dormant  was  broad  awake  and  on  its 
guard.  Lumbering  after  her  like  an  ele- 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  THE  SOUTH.  73 

phant,  Mme.  Thonet  was  always  appearing 
in  breathless  apology  for  havoc  wrought  by 
Theresine.  At  breakfast,  Berthe's  skirt, 
violently  tugged,  revealed  The"resine  emerg- 
ing from  beneath  the  cloth  and  holding  up 
a  rosebud  mouth  for  kisses. 

"I  have  been  pinching  their  legs,  ces 
autres,"  she  frankly  avowed.  "I  love  you, 
Mile.  Berthe,  and  you  shall  give  me  a 
spoonful  of  your  comfitures.  Dame !  you 
are  as  pretty  as  the  ladies  in  the  ballet  who 
twirl  like  this — so — do  you  see?  I  shall  be 
one  some  day.  As  for  those  others,  I  will 
not  make  them  my  compliments,  as  bonne 
maman  desires — they  are  all  vielles  dia- 
blesses,  va  !  " 

In  the  general  excitement  below  stairs, 
Berthe  escaped  to  her  garret  refuge  to  read 
a  sad  little  note  just  received  from  Mme. 
Letellier. 

"If  I  have  not  sought  to  press  my  lips 
again  upon  your  pure  brow,  beloved  child. 


74  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

it  is  because  between  you  and  me  is  a  great 
gulf  fixed.  I  dare  not  speak  to  you  of  what 
fills  my  days  and  nights.  If  she  lives,  the 
task  to  which  the  remainder  of  my  life  is  to 
be  set — the  work  of  rehabilitation — must  be 
worked  out  in  silence,  in  the  twilight  of  some 
forgotten  corner  of  the  world ;  not  in  the 
sunshine  in  which  your  steps  should  walk." 
Berthe,  feeling  the  truth  of  this  to  be  a 
pang,  looked  sadly  about  the  pretty,  cheer- 
ful room,  kept  in  spotless  order  by  rough- 
handed  but  soft-hearted  Henriette.  In  a 
stream  of  winter  sunshine  she  sat  down 
with  her  book  to  study  a  certain  piece 
from  "Athalie,"  recommended  by  madame 
for  practice  during  the  interruption  to  their 
lessons.  With  a  little  blue  shawl  huddled 
around  her  shoulders,  madame's  artificial 
begonias  spreading  their  broad  leaves  above 
her  head,  she  knit  her  brows  and  conned 
the  words;  then,  springing  to  her  feet, 
essayed  to  render  them  with  the  old  zeal  of 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  75 

the  days  of  Les  Amandiers.  Back  came 
the  fire  of  enthusiasm  which,  during  ma- 
dame's  measured  teachings  according  to  the 
strict  canons  of  French  art,  had  seemed  to 
despairing  Berthe  to  have  forever  fled. 
Thrilling  and  flushing,  she  declaimed  the 
clear-cut  verses  to  the  end. 

Then  from  behind  the  chintz  screen  at 
the  door  stepped  a  stranger,  hat  in  hand. 
He  was  a  rusty  little  man,  wrapped  in  a 
paletot  lined  with  sable  fur,  with  a  head 
too  big  for  his  slender  body,  a  pair  of  glit- 
tering black  eyes  and  a  wide,  distorted 
mouth. 

Berthe's  face  burned  with  blushes  as  she 
made  him  a  little  courtesy,  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"I  know  you,"  she  said.  "Madame  has 
been  always  hoping  you  would  come.  You 
are  M.  Bertin." 

"  Everybody  knows  the  little  Polichi- 
nelle,"  he  said,  with  a  short,  harsh  laugh. 


7  6  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"Everyone  who  honors  your  art  recog- 
nizes the  master." 

Her  directness  pleased  him.  A  born 
bully  of  women,  the  teacher  of  actors  most 
in  demand  in  Paris,  Bertin  liked  to  be  faced 
by  fearless  eyes.  But  he  did  not  dispense 
with  his  usual  preliminary  bluster. 

"I  suppose,  then,  as  a  seeress,  you  know 
that  I  came  here,  coaxed  by  a  note  from 
my  old  friend,  Julie  Letellier,  to  hear 
you  try  your  pipe.  And  I've  heard  you. 
Humph!" 

"Oh,  monsieur!"  said  Berthe,  a  faint  sick- 
ness creeping  over  her  at  thought  of  her 
display. 

"I  have  had  enough,  look  you,"  said 
Bertin,  sitting  down  and  taking  out  his 
snuffbox,  "of  deluding  young  women  with 
false  hopes  because  their  eyes  are  bright 
and  their  tongues  are  supple." 

"Mme.  Letellier  calls  you  a  clairvoyant," 
said  she,  mustering  fresh  courage.  "She 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  77 

says  if  there  is  hope  you  will  fan  it  into  a 
flame." 

"Did  she  tell  you  that  I  refuse  to  accept 
any  pupil  who  fails  in  that  intuitive  percep- 
tion of  my  art  without  which  my  calling 
would  be  carthorse  drudgery?  Bon!  Then 
what  do  you  think  of  your  chances  at  my 
hands?" 

"What  could  I  put  into  words,  mon- 
sieur?" said  trembling  Berthe,  half  encour- 
aged by  something  like  a  soft  beam  in  his 
eye,  "that  would  not  seem  to  you  bold  and 
audacious?  All  my  life  long  —  nearly 
eighteen  years — since  I  could  speak,  I  have 
escaped  into  the  world  of  your  'art,'  like  the 
girl  in  the  story  who,  when  cast  into  a  pit, 
stretched  out  her  hand,  touched  a  spring, 
and  opened  a  door  into  fairyland." 

"Tiens.  It  is  as  Julie  said.  She  is  not 
jeune  fille  like  most  of  them,"  murmured 
Bertin. 

"When  I  go  to  the  play  I  am  like  a  fool- 


?8  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

ish  creature.  I  sit  spellbound,  and  laugh 
and  cry.  To  me  it  is  more  than  music  or 
painting  to  be  able  to  interpret  the  burning 
words  of  a  great  poet  or  playwright  and 
make  them  real." 

"Oh,  la  belle  jeunesse  / "  said  Bertin, 
grown  indulgent.  "Now  sit  here,  my  child, 
and  let  me  tell  you  that  Julie  Letellier  has 
strongly  enlisted  my  interest  in  you.  For 
her,  to  whom  in  the  past  I  am  bound  by 
many  ties  of  friendship,  I  will  do  what  I 
would  refuse  to  a  princess  of  blood  royal  or 
of  finance.  I  will  let  you  come  to  me  now 
and  again  to  report  progress  under  Julie's 
teaching.  If,  as  I  believe,  the  true  spark 
is  there,  we  shall  find  it,  never  fear. 
But " 

"But?"  repeated  Berthe,  foreseeing  diffi- 
culty. 

"There  is  one  point  on  which  I  am  inflex- 
ible. I  no  longer  live  to  encourage  the 
banalit^  of  drawing-room  recitations.  If 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  79 

you  work  under  me  it  must  be  for  the 
stage." 

Berthe's  head  swam,  and  her  heart  beat 
violently.  Bertin  smiled.  The  old  fox 
knew  his  power. 

"That  is  Mme.  Letellier's  day-dream," 
she  stammered;  "I  have  never  dared — 
there  are  circumstances,  M.  Bertin." 

"Exactly,"  said  Bertin,  rising  and  looking 
at  his  watch.  "And  now,  as  I  have  an 
appointment,  I  must  be  off.  When  you  are 
ready  for  me,  come.  Au  plaisir,  mademoi- 
selle." 

The  little  man  vanished  as  he  had  ap- 
peared— noiselessly.  Longing,  yet  not  pre- 
suming to  call  him  back,  Berthe  asked 
herself  if  her  interview  with  the  celebrated 
artist  had  not  been  a  delusion  born  of  the 
most  secret  longing  of  her  heart. 

Caps!  above  all,  caps!  To  outdo  her 
neighbor  in  the  matter  of  festal  headgear 


8o  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

was  the  ambition  of  every  old  lady  who  sat 
down  that  evening  to  the  annual  "Diner  des 
Rois."  Some  of  them  wore  helmets,  others 
towers,  some  windmills,  others,  again,  great 
butterflies  of  gauze  and  flowers  and  ribbons. 
The  widow  of  the  Spanish  general  alone 
came  as  usual  in  her  calash  of  drawn  black 
silk,  in  the  depths  of  which  her  face  looked 
like  a  little  withered  apple.  She  carried 
on  her  arm  a  cheap  straw  basket,  passed 
around  the  table  to  receive  from  the  plates 
of  guests  scraps  and  bones  intended  for  her 
cat  and  dog  at  home.  Madame  Blanchet, 
ex-actress  of  the  Gaiete,  who  was  rolled 
across  the  courtyard  in  a  fine  chair  with  a 
hood  and  lamps,  and  was  attended  at  table 
by  her  servants,  wore  a  gown  of  stiff  bro- 
cade, and  her  withered  hand  sparkled  with 
fine  rings.  She,  who  had  once  held  audi- 
ences entranced  by  her  matchless  skill, 
who  had  had  lovers  by  the  score,  was 
now  a  mumbling  old  wreck,  pushed  and 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  81 

patted  into  shape  in  her  chair  by  her  page 
and  a  scowling  maid.  But  her  eyes 
gleamed,  and  she  exchanged  calembours 
with  M.  Jerome,  the  gallant  of  Bois  Dor- 
mant, who  wore  a  yellow  skull  cap  and 
blew  kisses  to  the  ladies  as  they  took  their 
places.  Mme.  Thonet,  her  mustaches  brist- 
ling with  excitement  under  a  frontispiece  of 
lilies  of  the  valley  set  in  tulle,  patrolled  the 
room  until  fifty  souls  were  seated  around 
the  T-shaped  table.  For  to-night  she  had 
thrown  aside  domestic  cares  and  held  herself 
like  a  duchess.  She  was  gracious  to  the 
most  implacable  of  her  daily  foes,  who  in 
turn  met  her  upon  a  common  ground,  igno- 
ring gravies  and  discussing  questions  of  the 
beau  monde  of  bourgeoisie.  So,  too,  M. 
Auguste,  the  carver,  who,  in  evening  dress 
with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole  and  with  a 
military  air,  circled  among  the  guests.  No 
snappish  rejoinders  to  everyday  complaints 
about  rosbif  saignant  or  fowls  unjustly  dis- 


82  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

tributed.  To-morrow,  in  his  alpaca  jacket, 
he  will  go  around  collecting  the  five 
francs  per  capita  meant  to  cover  the  extra 
expenses  of  the  banquet.  To-night  his  wit, 
his  compliments,  put  everyone  in  spirit. 
Decidedly,  averred  the  old  ladies,  M. 
Auguste  was  a  man  tres  comine  il  faut ! 

Jean,  the  head  waiter,  laden  with  plates 
from  armpits  to  finger  tips,  flew  like  a 
meteor  around  the  board.  His  jokes,  of  a 
personal  character,  were  distributed  impar- 
tially. The  overworked  maids,  who  were 
his  subordinates,  also  forgot  their  aching 
bones,  bridled,  smiled,  and  were  everywhere 
at  once.  When  the  feast  had  progressed  to 
the  stage  of  the  dessert  an  awestruck  hush 
ensued.  Jean,  the  observed  of  every  eye, 
appeared  from  the  pantry  carrying  the 
galette.  This,  a  huge  cake,  decorated  with 
sugar  ornaments,  was  cut  by  Mme.  Thonet 
and  handed  among  the  guests. 

Berthe's   dread,  that    she   might    acquire 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  83 

the  queen's  half  of  the  magic  bean  hid  in. 
the  cake,  was  of  brief  duration.  To  the  lot 
of  little.  There'sine  fell  the  great  prize  of  the 
year,  and  to  that  of  old  M.  Jerome  its  com- 
panion, announcing  him  the  king.  Arm- 
and-arm  (or  hand  in  hand,  rather),  amid  a 
tumult  of  acclamation,  their  majesties  made 
the  circuit  of  the  board,  clinking  glasses 
with  each  subject  and  bestowing  on  each 
a  double-barreled  kiss. 

Theresine,  for  a  wonder,  behaved  de- 
murely. Stopping  by  Berthe,  she  threw 
both  arms  around  her  neck. 

"Oh,  how  you  smell  sweet!"  cried  the 
little  outlaw.  "But  that  bonne  maman  says 
they  will  give  me  money  and  sweets,  I 
would  not  kiss  one  of  those  old  and  ugly ! 
I  should  rather  kill  them  all !" 

Next,  seated  side  by  side,  amid  a  cackling 
as  of  peacocks  and  macaws,  their  majesties 
were  toasted.  The  king  having  ordered, 
as  entailed  by  custom  upon  the  sovereign, 


84  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

fresh  wine  for  all,  whenever  either  he  or 
Queen  The"resine  lifted  glass  to  lips,  the 
company  cried  out,  "The  king  drinks!" 
"The  queen  drinks!"  "Bravo!  Brava!" 

After  a  brief  adjournment  to  the  salon 
for  cards  and  coffee,  the  tables  were  dis- 
mantled and  pushed  back;  a  big  red- 
bearded  German,  an  agent  for  the  sale  of 
Prussian  beer,  sat  down  to  the  piano  and 
dashed  off  a  spirited  galop.  The  irrepressi- 
ble old  people  took  the  floor! 

Berthe,  who  had  left  her  mother  for 
awhile  to  view  the  merry  scene,  stood  in  a 
doorway,  resisting  invitations  to  join  the 
dance,  when  Jean  spoke  to  her  from  behind. 

"A  monsieur  for  ces  dames,  mademoiselle. 
He  is  here  waiting,  as  I  feared  to  disturb 
madame." 

Berthe  turned  quickly,  an  ecstasy  of  hope 
lighting  up  her  face.  It  was  Ludlow  who 
stood  in  the  entry  near  the  front  door. 

"I  will  not  detain  you,"  he  said,  noting 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  85 

her  change  of  expression.  "I  have  just 
come  from  Mme.  de  Tersac,  who  asks  if 
your  mother  will  spare  you  to  her  for  the 
'Fete  des  Patineurs'  next  Tuesday  night. 
I  have  tickets,  and  Comte  de  Barrot  will  go, 
too.  I  fancied  the  thing  might  amuse  you 
to  look  on." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Berthe,  pleased 
in  spite  of  herself.  "I  should  like  it  very 
much  indeed." 

But  she  could  not  do  away  with  the  first 
effect  of  her  disappointment  manifested  in 
meeting  him.  He  stopped  for  a  few  min- 
utes to  watch  the  old  folk  "foot  it  featly," 
and  then  abruptly  took  his  leave. 

"I  suppose  it  is  a  judgment  on  me  for 
fraternizing  with  an  enemy  of  my  country," 
Berthe  said  to  herself;  "but  I  am  always 
uncomfortable  when  he  is  near." 

By  Tuesday,  however,  she  was  quite  pre- 
pared to  again  invoke  the  wrath  of  Fate. 


86  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

When  she  found  herself  with  Ludlow  on 
the  edge  of  the  illuminated  pond,  their 
chaperon  having  elected  to  remain  under 
shelter  on  the  bank,  Berthe's  vivacity  got 
the  better  of  her  patriotism.  She  even  for- 
got the  gnawing  anxiety  at  her  heart  to  see 
or  hear  something  of  the  still  absent  Bel- 
mont.  With  the  glee  of  a  child  she  threw 
herself  into  the  spirit  of  the  dazzling  scene. 
Ludlow,  in  turn,  charmed  out  of  his  own 
reserve,  showed  her  a  side  he  had  not  before 
displayed.  She  began  to  feel  that  it  was 
time  to  give  up  the  futile  task  of  adjusting 
political  prejudice  to  individual  instance. 

In  the  brilliant  figures  flashing  upon  their 
rounds  Berthe  recognized  many  of  the  per- 
sonages seen  at  the  ball  of  the  Tuileries; 
last,  but  not  least,  to  her  girl's  delight,  came 
the  Empress,  more  beautiful  than  ever  in  her 
clinging  costume  of  sapphire  blue  velvet 
edged  with  plumage  of  the  grebe,  skating 
slowly,  and  holding  a  pole  supported  at 
either  end  by  gentlemen  of  the  court. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  87 

Now  the  crowd  on  the  pond  increased  to  a 
kaleidoscope  of  color.  Two  American  girls 
with  their  escorts,  pausing  close  to  Berthe, 
chattered  incessantly  about  the  actors  in 
the  scene. 

"Carrington  is  the  handsomest  man  here; 
I  don't  care  if  he  was  a  rebel,"  said  one  of 
these  young  women,  in  answer  to  a  remark 
unheard  by  Berthe.  "He  goes,  of  course, 
chiefly  with  that  New  Orleans  set  married 
into  the  old  French  families.  I  think  Mrs. 
Forsyth  may  well  congratulate  herself  on 
such  a  prize." 

"Everybody  knew  she  'went'  for  him  last 
season,  but  everybody  was  surprised  at  the 
announcement  in  Galignani  yesterday  that 
the  wedding  is  set  for  April,"  said  the  other 
girl. 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Forsyth,  anyhow?"  asked  a 
young  man  newly  arrived. 

"Not  know  Mrs.  Forsyth?  Why,  she  is 
the  enormously  rich  widow  of  one  of  the 
partners  of  the  banking  firm  Mr.  Carrington 


88  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

is  employed  by — quite  a  romance,  isn't  it? 
Came  from  Mobile  originally,  or  some  one 
of  those  Southern  towns — five  years  older 
than  he,  if  she's  a  day.  Pretty?  yes,  or 
chic  rather,  and  such  taste  in  dress.  There 
they  come  now.  Carrington  returned  from 
England  Saturday,  and  the  affair  was  an- 
nounced at  once." 

Berthe,  to  whose  consciousness  these 
facts  were  conveyed  with  fatal  accuracy, 
had  no  need  to  question  the  truth  of  them. 
Directly  thereafter  the  couple  under  discus- 
sion stopped  skating  close  to  her,  and 
Berthe  recognized  at  once  the  companion  of 
Belmont's  talk  in  the  balcony  on  New 
Year's  day.  A  blinding  light  broke  upon 
her.  When  Belmont,  stooping  to  adjust 
Mrs.  Forsyth's  skate,  rose  again  with  his 
charming  smile,  to  meet  Berthe's  eyes 
opened  wide  to  his,  he  read,  even  then, 
something  of  the  unalterableness  of  her 
estimate  of  him. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  89 

By  the  time  they  joined  Mme.  de  Tersac 
that  lady,  who  had  met  friends,  was  full 
of  the  gossip  of  the  new  engagement. 
Berthe's  yearning  hope,  that  no  one  might 
peep  behind  the  curtain  drawn  over  her 
slain  love,  was  gratified  by  Colonel  Ludlow's 
request  that  the  ladies  would  excuse  his 
attendance  on  their  drive  to  Bois  Dormant. 

It  was  well  into  March,  and  the  frowns 
of  departing  winter  had  been  succeeded  by 
spring  warmth  that  brought  into  quick 
bloom  the  pansies  and  wall  flowers  around 
the  court,  when  Mme.  Letellier,  released 
from  her  sad  service,  came  back  to  take  up 
her  old  routine  at  Bois  Dormant.  With 
the  soldier's  honors  of  her  son  and  the 
shame  and  sorrow  of  her  daughter  lying 
alike  beneath  the  sod,  the  one  in  far  Mex- 
ico, the  other  in  Pere  la  Chaise,  there  was 
little  left  in  her  but  a  mere  spark  of  life. 
But  her  quick  perceptions  took  note  at  once 


90  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


of  the  brave  fight  Berthe  was  making  to 
live  down  some  dominating  passion  that 
had  shaken  her  young  being  as  the  wind 
shakes  a  reed.  With  tender  solicitude  the 
old  woman  gave  herself  to  the  task  of  awak- 
ening anew  Berthe's  interest  in  her  inter- 
rupted studies,  and  hardly  a  day  passed  that 
they  did  not  walk  together  in  the  Bois,  and 
return  for  an  hour  of  hard  work  in  the 
chamber  beneath  the  roof.  Berlin's  visit 
and  the  girl's  account  of  it  awoke  for  the 
first  time  a  smile  on  madame's  face. 

"  He  was  in  earnest,  my  good  Bertin," 
she  said.  "  I  wonder  if  you  realized  how 
much  that  offer  meant." 

"  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  think  much 
about  it  then,"  Berthe  answered  with  a 
sigh.  "  Now,  again  and  again,  it  returns  to 
me.  But  oh!  madame,  help  me  to  put  it 
from  my  mind.  My  poor  mother  would  not 
dream  of  consenting.  I  should  not  venture 
to  propose  it." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  91 

Mme.  de  Lagastine,  who,  in  her  im- 
passive way,  had  grown  fond  of  Belmont 
Carrington,  lamented  daily  that  he  had  quite 
given  them  up.  She  consulted  Mme.  de 
Tersac,  who  told  her  that  Mr.  Carrington 
was  now  always  on  duty  with  his  affianced 
bride,  and  was  little  seen  by  any  of  his  old 
friends.  The  marriage,  which  was  to  take 
place  in  April,  was  thought  by  everyone  to 
be  a  most  appropriate  alliance,  and  had 
been  settled  between  their  nearest  friends 
long  before  the  couple  had  come  into 
agreement  on  their  own  account.  Mrs. 
Forsyth,  a  pretty  enough  creature — a  little 
spoiled  and  whimsical,  but  no  harm  in  her — 
was  the  uncontrolled  possessor  of  an  income 
that  would  put  the  ruined  young  Southerner 
beyond  all  chances  of  fortune  for  the  future. 
He  was  handsome  as  a  picture  and  every- 
body's favorite,  had  made  his  coup  on  first 
arriving  in  Paris,  it  was  whispered,  but  had 
now  fairly  settled  down  :  truly,  thought  Mme. 


92  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

de  Tersac,  a  most  suitable  affair.  When 
Berthe  went  out  of  the  room  the  little  old 
lady  took  occasion  to  nod  her  head  and 
add: 

"  But  for  the  lack  of  dot  I  have  no  doubt 
he  would  have  offered  to  you  for  Berthe. 
Of  course,  it  would  have  been  madness  for 
those  two." 

"Of  course,"  repeated  Mine,  de  Lagas- 
tine  drearily.  "  I  appear  to  recall  some  old 
talk  between  my  husband  and  his  neighbor, 
Colonel  Carrington,  when  these  children 
were  very  young.  But  then  it  was  all  so 
different." 

"It  is  most  unfortunate,  Berthe's  lack 
of  dot,"  went  on  Mme.  de  Tersac.  "There 
is  the  nephew,  now,  of  the  Comte  de  Barrot, 
an  amiable  young  man,  of  excellent  charac- 
ter, the  count  most  willing — but,  what  would 
you  have  ?  " 

"  I  am  cold  in  these  raw  spring  days," 
said  Berthe's  mother,  shivering. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  93 

"  Again,  I  had  an  idea  that  the  young 
Union  officer,  introduced  to  us  by  Barrot, 
admired  your  child  greatly.  But  there,  he 
has  gone  off  to  Italy,  and  we  hear  no  more 
of  him." 

"  Berthe  de  Lagastine  could  not  ally  her- 
self with  a  soldier  of  that  hated  service," 
said  Mme.  de  Lagastine,  actually  letting 
fall  her  embroidery  frame.  And  Mme.  de 
Tersac,  who  had  lived  in  Paris  during  the 
late  excitement,  and  cherished  more  luke- 
warm views  about  its  issue,  hastened  to  com- 
fort her  friend  by  suggesting  a  new  stitch. 

Berthe  did  not  fail  to  receive  from  Bel- 
mont  a  letter  written  the  day  after  the 
skating  festival.  He  made  no  attempt  at 
self-defense,  telling  her  that  he  had  been, 
since  many  months  before  his  first  visit  to 
Rue  Morny,  engaged  to  marry  Mrs  For- 
syth.  The  lady's  absence  in  England, 
until  after  Christinas,  had  conspired  with 
circumstances  to  bring  about  the  present 


94  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

deplorable  result.  With  all  the  eloquence 
of  evident  deep  feeling  he  urged  upon  her 
to  receive  him  for  a  personal  explanation. 
Destroying  this  communication,  she  had 
tried  to  put  the  matter  from  her  mind,  but, 
as  the  days  went  on  with  weary  tread,  felt 
the  sting  of  the  wound  increase. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning  in  "proud-pied  " 
April  ;  the  balm  of  flowers  and  the 
song  of  birds  filled  the  soft  spring  air, 
when  Berthe,  walking  in  the  Bois  with 
madame,  saw  that  the  old  woman's  eyes 
expressed  something  she  wished  to  speak 
yet  dared  not.  The  girl,  conscious  of  a  new 
letter  thrust  into  the  folds  of  her  gown, 
that  tormented  her  with  beseechings  to  see 
Belmont  once  again,  sat  down  beneath  an 
oak  tree  in  a  quiet  spot,  and  tried  to 
think  what  she  should  do. 

"  My  own  Berthe,"  began  the  French- 
woman timidly,  "  sympathy  you  have,  but 
you  need  counsel.  May  I  speak?" 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  95 

"  If  you  only  knew  what  a  struggle  is 
going  on  within  me,"  cried  the  girl  passion- 
ately. "  I  seem  to  have  lost  my  sense  of 
right  or  wrong.  Oh,  but  I  cannot  tell  you — 
I  cannot  !  I  should  die  of  shame  !  " 

The  words  were  no  sooner  spoken  than  re- 
pented of.  A  dull  red  burned  on  the  old 
woman's  swarthy  cheek.  Her  head  dropped 
upon  her  chest,  and  her  eyes  brimmed  with 
hot  tears. 

"  That  fate  is  not  for  you,  my  child,"  said 
madame  brokenly.  "  No,  never  mind,  it 
gives  me  the  courage  I  required.  Berthe, 
can  you  bear  a  blow  ?  Try,  then,  to  under- 
stand why  every  impulse  of  my  nature  is 
against  your  trusting  him  who  has  won 
your  love." 

Berthe  started  fiercely,  as  if  a  serpent  had 
writhed  across  her  path.  She  ventured  an 
imploring  glance  into  madame's  face,  and 
read  there  the  blasting  truth. 

"  Elise,  too,  loved   him — she  believed    in 


96  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

him  ;  because  he  forsook  her  she  cast  away 
the  remnants  of  her  miserable  life,"  the 
mother  stammered,  pressing  her  hands  to- 
gether in  the  effort  at  self-repression. 

Berthe  did  not  question  her.  She  only 
sat  in  a  kind  of  dumb  despair.  Her 
thoughts,  roving  over  her  brief,  eventful 
life,  recalled  what,  long  ago,  her  old  nurse 
Clarisse  had  cried  out  from  the  anguish  of  a 
life-long  grief,  "  Dey  cawn't  help  dcyselves, 
dem  Carrin'tons.  He's  got  blood  in  his 
veins  what  will  surely  bring  misery  to  dem 
dat  loves  him." 

"Oh,  Mammy  Clarisse!"  the  girl  said 
within  herself,  "  I'm  glad  you  didn't  live  to 
know  I  was  to  suffer  with  the  rest." 

She  saw  Belmont  again,  unseen  by  him, 
when  with  Mme.  de  Tersac  she  went  to  a 
concert  given  for  the  benefit  of  the  exiled 
Poles  in  Paris  by  their  aristocratic  country- 
women of  the  Hotel  Lambert.  In  the  cen- 
ter of  the  large  salle,  at  Mrs.  Forsyth's  side, 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  97 

amid  an  animated  group  of  the  beautiful 
women  and  picturesque  men  whose  velvet- 
soft  dark  eyes  and  dazzling  tint  of  skin  be- 
tokened their  nationality,  Belmont  Carring- 
ton  was  sitting.  He  had  turned  away  from 
his  betrothed,  and  was  talking  with  a  little 
fair-haired  prince  of  an  ancient  Polish  house, 
whose  mother,  a  great  lady  of  Spain,  bent 
graciously  toward  him  from  the  other  side. 
During  the  hush  attending  a  performance 
on  the  piano  by  the  Princess  Marcelline 
Czartoryska  accompanied  by  a  chosen  or- 
chestra, Mrs.  Forsyth,  her  throat  wrapped 
with  strings  of  priceless  pearls,  her  pretty 
head  overweighted  by  an  aigret  of  gems, 
whispered  to  Belmont,  who  gave  her  no  an- 
swering smile.  He  had  lapsed  into  reverie, 
evidently  not  of  an  enlivening  nature,  and 
Mrs.  Forsyth,  in  token  of  her  displeasure, 
promptly  devoted  herself  to  the  man  upon 
her  right.  At  the  first  interval  Carrington 
arose  and  withdrew  from  the  hall,  and  from 


98  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

her  modest  corner  Berthe  caught  one  final 
glimpse  of  him  standing,  jaded  and  unsmil- 
ing still,  in  the  doorway,  behind  a  crowd  of 
golden  youths,  idlers  and  butterflies,  whose 
rank  he  was  now  to  join  for  good.  That  he 
had  changed,  that  he  was  not  the  happy, 
buoyant  Belmont  of  a  few  months  back, 
she  could  not  doubt.  In  her  dread  of  en- 
countering his  wandering  eye  she  shrank  be- 
hind Mme.  de  Tersac,  and  effaced  herself 
with  a  fan,  until  the  concert  came  to  a  close. 
The  experience  of  this  evening,  however 
poignant,  was  destined  to  be  swept  away 
by  one  more  momentous  in  consequence. 
Reaching  Villa  Bois  Dormant,  Berthe  found 
her  mother  suffering  from  an  attack  of  heart 
trouble,  of  which  she  had  had  one  or  two 
premonitory  hints.  Two  days  later  Mme. 
de  Lagastine  died,  and  Berthe,  casting  her- 
self into  the  arms  of  feeble  Mme.  Letellier, 
realized  that  she  and  the  great  world  were 
now  looking  at  each  other  face  to  face.  The 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  99 

immediate  cause  of  Mme.  de  Lagastine's 
seizure,  it  was  thought,  was  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Duval,  in  New  Orleans,  informing  her 
of  the  final  shrinkage  of  the  sources  of  her 
income,  which  would  reduce  the  sum  hence- 
forth to  be  counted  on  to  a  pittance  insuffi- 
cient for  their  support. 

At  the  first  news  of  Berthe's  loss  came 
kind  Mme.  de  Tersac,  proffering  to  the 
girl  a  home  until  her  affairs  could  be  put 
into  shape.  Other  friends  called,  and  the 
Southern  colony  bestirred  itself  with  cordial 
tokens  of  regard.  Laid  in  her  coffin,  poor 
Mme.  de  Lagastine  looked  almost  as  in  life; 
but  when  the  still  form  was  shut  finally 
from  human  sight,  Berthe's  lonely  heart 
ached  to  bring  back  her  solitary  prop. 

Driving  to  Mme.  de  Tersac's  apartment 
from  the  funeral,  and  consenting  to  let  her 
friend  go  on  alone  to  Bois  Dormant  for 
necessary  oversight  of  what  was  left  there, 
Berthe  mounted  many  flights,  solitary  and 


loo         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

heart-sick,  to  be  admitted  by  sympathetic 
Marie,  madame's  maid. 

There  was  tea  in  waiting,  Marie  said,  but 
if  mademoiselle  would  prefer  a  tisane  of  eau 
de  fleur  d'oranger  to  calm  the  nerves,  Marie 
would  mix  one  before  she  should  see  the 
gentleman.  What  gentleman,  did  mademoi- 
selle ask  ?  Dame!  Marie  could  not  say, 
not  being  in  the  habit  of  answering  the  bell ; 
but  a  gentleman,  young  and  handsome,  who 
had  positively  declared  that  he  must  see 
mademoiselle,  with  or  without  madame,  as 
soon  as  she  returned  from  the  last  melan- 
choly duties  to  feu  madame  la  mere  de 
mademoiselle. 

Berthe's  heart  gave  a  great  leap  when  she 
went  into  Mme.  de  Tersac's  tiny  sitting- 
room.  Haggard,  pallid,  love  pleading  in 
his  eyes,  Belmont  Carrington  stood  before 
her. 

"  I  was  there  at  the  cemetery  and  at  the 
church,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "Could 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.        iof 

you  think  that  I  would  let  you  bear  this 
alone?  For  the  sake  of  old  times,  for  Les 
Amandiers,  I  could  not  keep  away." 

"  It  has  been  a  great  shock,"  Berthe  be- 
gan mechanically,  and  stopped,  choking. 
On  a  billow  of  love  her  heart  went  out  to 
answer  the  look  in  his  face.  Not  moving 
toward  her,  but  beseeching  her  by  gaze,  he 
held  out  his  arms.  Fora  moment  she  stood 
trembling,  fascinated,  sorely  tempted  to 
weep  away  her  lonely  sorrows  on  his  breast 
— then  drew  back  with  a  shudder. 

"Oh,  you  are  cruel!"  she  said.  "You 
would  make  me  like  yourself." 

"  Berthe,  hear  me,"  he  whispered  in  her 
ear.  "  Anything  is  better  than  to  live  a  lie. 
You  and  I  love  one  another.  I  have  done 
my  best  to  be  true  to  her;  it  is  a  miserable 
failure.  Last  week,  when  I  sat  at  her  side 
listening  to  music,  the  thought  of  that 
Christmas  mass  came  between  us  and — I 
believe  I  hated  her." 


102         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


"  Hush,  hush,  you  pain  me  beyond 
words,"  she  said  imploringly. 

"  Pain  you  ?  When  it  is  because  of  the 
vast  desire  I  have  to  comfort  you,  to  take 
you  into  my  life  and  surround  you  with  my 
love  that  I  am  driven  to  speak  now  ?  Come 
to  me,  Berthe.  Be  my  wife,  let  the  world 
wag  as  it  may.  What  can  a  frail  young 
thing  do  in  a  solitude  like  yours  ?  Duval  has 
written  to  me  of  your  new  embarrassments. 
Let  me  care  for  you,  share  my  lot  with  you. 
Marry  me  to-day,  to-morrow,  if  you  will." 

"  But — I  don't  understand.  You  are — 
now — free  ?  "  she  stammered. 

"  I  admit  no  ties  but  the  one  that  God 
has  made  between  your  heart  and  mine,"  he 
said  with  a  clouding  brow. 

Berthe  clasped  her  hands  over  her  face 
and  tried  to  think.  If  in  the  first  strong 
temptation  her  sense  of  right  had  tottered, 
it  was  still  firm  on  a  foundation  he  could 
not  understand.  Being  true  to  her  loftier 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.          103 

instincts,  it  was  impossible  that  she  should 
yield.  But  in  the  somber,  insistent  man 
beside  her  she  had  met  with  a  new  element 
in  her  girlish  experience.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  another  creature  was  looking  from 
Belmont's  eyes. 

"  Berthe,  what  good  can  you  do  by  con- 
demning our  two  lives  to  misery?"  he 
went  on,  dreading  her  silence.  "  If  you 
like,  I  can  be  transferred  to  New  Orleans, 
and  our  home  shall  be  far  from  the  memo- 
ries of  Paris.  Some  day,  when  we  are  rich, 
we  shall  go  back  to  Les  Amandiers.  Do 
you  remember  that  alley  of  oleanders  down 
which  I  ran  to  save  you  ?  To  walk  there 
with  your  hand  in  mine — Berthe,  you  are 
cold — you  tremble — are  you  faint  ?  " 

"  Listen  to  me,"  she  said,  rising  to  put  the 
width  of  the  room  between  them.  "  I've 
let  you  speak  because  I  am  weak,  maybe — 
too  weak  even  to  resent  affront.  No,  don't 
interrupt  me.  I  don't  mean  to  resent  it  now. 


104         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

I'm  not  going  to  pretend  to  hide  what  you've 
made  me  feel.  I  think  there  can  never  have 
been  a  girl  who  suffered  more  in  being  de- 
ceived. Whatever  I  suffer  henceforth,  it 
can't  be  worse  than  that.  Even  if  I  con- 
sidered you  honorably  free,  it  would  not 
alter  the  mistrust  I  should  have  of 
you." 

"Ah,  how  you  can  sting!"  he  cried. 
"  Who  would  think  that  a  young  creature 
like  you  would  be  one  of  the  judicial,  unfor- 
giving sort  ?  " 

"  I  can  forgive,"  she  went  on  more  gently, 
seeing  him  deeply  wounded.  "  But  long 
before  we  met  here  to-day  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  that  I  dared  not  trust." 

"  What  are  women  put  in  the  world  for 
but  to  be  angels  of  pity  and  gentleness,  if 
they  are  not  angels  of  the  other  sort  ? 
Why  can't  you  say :  '  He  sinned,  he  offended 
me,  he  cut  me  in  my  tenderest  part,  but  he 
loves  me  and  I  love  him.'  Love  like  ours 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.          105 

ought  to  be  the  first  law  of  the  universe, 
after  love  for  God.  You  stand  there  just 
like  a  sister  who  has  resolved  to  put  on 
the  black  veil.  Only  think  what  a  glorious 
thing  life  is  when  you  come  out  into  the 
broad  light.  If  you  want  a  mission,  reform 
me.  Take  my  burdens  with  my  love.  For 
I  do  love  you,  Berthe.  You  have  got  hold 
of  the  fibers  of  my  heart." 

"  No  matter  what  came,  there  would 
always  be  that  between  us,"  she  said  reso- 
lutely. "  If  I  live  to  be  an  old  woman  I 
could  never  get  back  just  what  you  have 
taken  from  me.  At  the  moment  when 
inclined  to  think  most  kindly  of  you,  I 
should  find  myself  calling  on  you  to  give 
me  back  my  lost  faith,  my  girl's  joy  in 
loving." 

"  You  are  too  young  to  cherish  such 
thoughts.  Come  to  me,  and  I  will  make 
your  life  a  glory  and  a  beauty  such  as  you 
never  dreamed  of,  Berthe." 


106         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"  You  have  everything  upon  your  side," 
she  said,  with  a  pathos  that  struck  him  with 
compassion.  "  And  I,  who  am,  as  you  say, 
a  young  girl  with  no  one  to  counsel  me,  no 
experience  of  the  world,  only  my  instincts 
to  guide  me,  am  not  good  at  such  an  argu- 
ment. But,  such  as  I  am,  I  have  lived,  I 
have  thought  and  weighed  and  measured 
things.  It  is  my  unhappiness,  not  my  fault, 
that  I  do  not  now  feel  as  I  did  five  months 
ago." 

"You  are  indeed  a  wonder,"  he  answered, 
goaded  by  her  calm. 

"  I  am  very  tired,"  she  said,  dropping 
into  a  chair  and  throwing  back  the  long 
crape  veil  that  had  fallen  half  across  her 
face.  This  gesture  reminded  Carrington, 
with  a  shock,  of  what  he  had  forgotten.  He 
bowed  in  silence,  and  turned  to  go  out  of 
the  room. 

"  Not  in  anger? "  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
touch  of  her  old  impulsiveness.  "  Won't 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.          107 

you  take  the  hand  of  your  playmate  and  bid 
her  a  kind  good-by  ?  " 

"  Berthe,  let  me  be  something  in  your 
life,"  he  cried,  coming  back  to  her  side  im- 
petuously. 

"  Not  now,"  she  said,  very  low.  He  took 
her  fingers  in  his  warm  clasp,  but  she  did  not 
stir  toward  him.  Then  Belmont  moved  to 
the  door.  With  his  hand  upon  the  knob,  he 
looked  back  and  met  her  gaze.  Her  sad 
eyes,  her  slight  figure  in  the  mourning  dress, 
the  proud  poise  of  her  head  under  its  brown 
coronal  of  hair,  might  haunt  his  memory — 
but  they  did  not  suggest  to  him  that  Berthe 
would  change. 

Some  years  after  this  episode  Bertin's 
pupil,  Miss  St.  Felix,  made  her  first  courtesy 
behind  the  footlights  in  New  York.  Her 
American  birth  and  parentage,  her  beauty 
and  talent,  even  the  old  story  about  her 
great-grandmother,  the  French  actress,  had 


108         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

been  discussed  in  the  newspapers  for  a  year 
before  her  ddbut  in  her  native  land.  The 
disclosure  of  her  ancestor's  calling,  which 
afflicted  no  one  living  save  Mme.  de 
Tersac,  inclined  Parisians  to  look  favorably 
upon  Berlin's  clever  prot^gde,  and  her  ap- 
pearance in  various  modest  roles  of  the 
French  drama  had  been  well  received.  The 
old  master,  who  watched  her  like  a  hawk, 
had  taken  care  that  her  dramatic  ascent  had 
been  made  by  safe  degrees.  When  the  dis- 
turbances in  France  afforded  her  a  good 
opportunity  to  accept  an  engagement  in 
America,  Bertin,  with  fierce  begrudging,  lent 
her  to  the  English-speaking  stage,  "  as  an 
experiment,"  he  said.  During  her  novitiate 
of  hard  work  she  had  remained  as  if  clois- 
tered under  Mme.  Letellier's  charge  at 
Bois  Dormant.  The  ex-actress,  whose 
youth  was  renewed  in  her,  trotted  about 
after  Berthe  and  waited  in  the  wings  with 
perfect  satisfaction.  On  her  first  appear- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.          109 

ance  as  an  ingenue  Berthe's  private  claque 
had  consisted  of  a  deputation  from  Bois 
Dormant,  headed  by  M.  Jerome  with 
his  skullcap  and  snuffbox,  and  including 
Mme.  Thonet, .  M.  Auguste,  and  as  many 
of  the  ancients  as  could  sally  forth  to  chirp 
approval.  The  success  of  her  efforts  being 
duly  sanctioned  by  the  habitue's  of  a  favorite 
theater,  Mrs.  Belmont  Carrington,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  audience  that  night,  re- 
marked afterward  to  her  husband — who  had 
happened  to  stay  at  home — that  he  must 
really  make  it  a  point  to  go  to  see  that  little 
Miss  What's-her-name  from  New  Orleans,  as 
Angtle  in  "  Le  Monde  d'Aujourdhui." 

Now  Berthe  had  tried  her  wings  in  the 
broad  empyrean.  She  came  back  into  her 
little  gas-lighted  dressing  room  in  the  New 
York  theater,  after  the  third  act,  stunned 
by  her  success.  While  madame  and  the 
maid  hovered  over  her  toilet  for  the  final 
scene,  she  appeared  to  be  restlessly  looking 


no         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

for  something  that  had  not  come.  A  box, 
handed  in,  was  opened  eagerly.  She  blushed 
like  a  schoolgirl  when  she  drew  out  from  a 
bed  of  violets  a  bunch  of  southern  jasmine. 
As  there  was  still  some  little  time  before  her 
last  entrance  upon  the  scene,  she  dismissed 
her  attendants  and  sat  plunged  in  thought. 
When  Mme.  Letellier  came  in  again  she 
found  that  Berthe  had  fastened  the  jasmine 
on  her  breast,  and  was  looking  at  herself 
in  the  mirror  with  a  somewhat  melancholy 
smile. 

"  But  you,  who  never  wear  flowers  upon 
the  scene,  my  Berthe !  "  exclaimed  madame, 
noting  it. 

"  I  shall  always  wear  this  flower,"  Berthe 
answered. 

When,  after  a  finale  that  left  no  room  to 
doubt  of  the  enthusiastic  temper  of  the 
audience  in  favor  of  the  actress,  Berthe  went 
out  to  get  into  her  carriage,  she  found  Lud- 
low  waiting  at  the  stage  door. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH.          in 

"  Is  it  true  ?  "  he  said,  "  I  can't  half  be- 
lieve it.  I  feel  like  a  beggar  who  has 
plucked  a  star  to  wear  in  his  buttonhole." 

"  I  have  something  more  to  give  you  than 
I  had  at  first,"  she  answered.  "  And  you 
deserve  everybody's  best.  The  only  thing 
I  fear  is  that  people  will  say  I  have  done 
this  to  avenge  history." 

Happily,  people  say  very  little  of  any 
sort  about  Berthe  in  these  latter  days. 
Mine,  de  Tersac  died  rejoicing,  Mme. 
Letellier  not  so  assured  in  satisfaction  at 
her  marriage  and  consequently  brief  career 
upon  the  stage.  Little  Bertin  was,  of  course, 
furious  over  it,  but  when  he  fell  fighting 
like  a  Tro-jan  in  defense  of  Paris  in  1871, 
.the  number  of  Berthe's  lawful  critics  was 
notably  reduced.  Ludlow,  of  course,  came 
in  for  the  lion's  share  of  unfavorable  com- 
ment bestowed  by  society  upon  the  situa- 
tion, but  as  he  was  well  known  for  cool 


112         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

indifference  to  trivial  opinion,  and  as  the 
couple  set  themselves  to  live  their  united 
life  after  their  own  fashion  in  a  community 
where  all  sensations  are  transient,  gossip 
soon  left  them  for  a  more  shining  mark. 
"  In  each  of  our  lives  the  seasons  are 

mingled  as  in  the  golden  age Fruit 

and  blossom  hang  together  .  .  .  harvest 
and  springtime  are  continually  one."  In 
the  fullness  of  contentment  long  withheld, 
Berthe's  glad  youth  came  back  to  reward 
her  husband. 


A  THORN  IN  HIS 
CUSHION. 


"  WELL,  I've  obtained  the  chariot  for  a 
day,"  Dale  said,  settling  himself  comfort- 
ably back  in  an  easy-chair,  representing  the 
editorial  throne  of  a  certain  monthly  maga- 
zine— a  place  which  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
to  think  himself  lacking  in  any  requisite  to 
fill ;  "  the  question  is,  Shall  I  be  merciful 
and  refrain  from  '  setting  the  world  on 
fire'?" 

Looking  up,  the  young  editor  caught  a 
rather  severe  glance  from  a  very  black-a- 
vised  photograph  of  Thomas  Carlyle  hang- 
ing on  the  wall  above  the  desk  ;  an  expres- 
sion at  once  convicting  him  of  untimely 


114  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

levity.  Pulling  himself  together,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  work  in  hand — turning  over 
and  sorting  a  series  of  MSS.  left  from  the 
last  labor  of  Hercules  of  his  departed  chief. 
For,  on  the  morning  of  one  of  those 
"drippy,  slippy,  nippy"  mornings  in  March, 
of  which  New  York  alone  is  capable,  the 
editor  of  the  Cosmos  had  betaken  himself, 
his  weak  lung,  his  wife,  baby,  etc.,  to  a  train 
in  Jersey  City,  bound  for  Florida.  And  as 
luck  would  have  it,  on  the  same  day,  the 
second  in  command  had  succumbed  to  a 
sudden  cold,  threatening  evils  that  would 
hold  him  house-bound  for  a  week.  There- 
fore it  was  that  upon  Mr.  Henry  Hillhouse 
Dale,  junior  in  office  as  in  years,  fell  the 
honors  of  the  editorial  hour.  All  things 
considered,  it  was  a  surprisingly  short  time 
since  he  had  been  called  on  to  perform  the 
same  duties  for  that  respected  and  long- 
lived  periodical,  the  Yale  Lit.  Harry's 
mother,  widow  of  the  late  Judge  Dale,  for 


A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  115 

many  years  a  most  estimable  citizen  of  the 
pretty  leafy  town  in  Berkshire  where  she 
still  dwelt,  thought  it  was  only  a  just  recog- 
nition by  Fate  of  her  boy's  surprising  tal- 
ents that  had  carried  him  so  briskly  along 
the  literary  path. 

However  self-satisfied,  Dale  soon  relapsed 
into  the  inevitable  paralysis  of  hope  that 
besets  the  reader  of  average  MSS.  One 
contribution  after  another,  from  authors 
convinced  that  their  right  to  enlighten 
society  through  the  columns  of  the  Cosmos 
had  been  revealed  to  them  by  a  handwriting 
of  celestial  fire,  was  tossed  aside.  The  usual 
callers — important,  insistent,  pathetic,  un- 
sparing, or  business-like — hafd  been  inter- 
viewed. There  was  within  Dale  a  still  small 
voice  pleading  for  lunch,  unanswered,  and 
there  yet  remained  to  him  for  examination 
a  woman's  MS. 

"  Here  goes,"  he  said,  suppressing  the 
anticipatory  groan  :  "  I  begin  to  understand 


1 1 6  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

the  resignation  that  routine  work  must  have 
inspired  in  those  headsmen  in  the  Reign  of 
Terror.  A  story  !  Yes,  of  course,  and  twice 
too  long,  to  begin  with.  Luckily  her  ink  is 
black  and  her  manuscript  don't  roll.  How 
well  she  dots  her  i's.  Ha !  that's  not  bad. 
The  description's  too  diffuse ;  but  she's  got 
a  grip  on  her  idea.  Let  me  see,  who  is  the 
contributor  in  the  case  ?  " 

He  turned  back  to  the  note  accompanying 
the  parcel,  running  his  eye  lazily  over  its 
pages — a  true  girl's  letter,  couched  between 
coaxing  and  command.  This  was  her  first 
contribution  to  any  magazine.  In  notifying 
her  of  his  acceptance,  the  editor  might 
address  "  Miss  E.  T.,  care  of  Mme.  Leblanc, 
No.  3001  West  Thirty-sixth  Street." 

"  Fresh  as  Bermuda  cucumbers  !  "  Dale 
said,  smiling.  But  he  did  not  put  aside  the 
manuscript.  Like  the  good  and  conscien- 
tious editor  he  was,  the  young  man  picked 
it  up  again.  Whatever  might  have  been  the 


A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 


faults  of  E.  T.'s  style,  and  they  were  plenti- 
ful, there  was  a  true  ring  in  her  sentiment,  a 
sparkle  in  her  unjaded  humor,  that  gushed 
like  a  spring  under  the  palms  of  the  editorial 
oasis.  It  smoothed  Dale's  wrinkled  front, 
and  left  him  in  as  good  a  humor  as  can  be 
expected  of  an  empty  man,  who  has  gone 
luncheonless  till  3  P.M.  One  thing  Dale  did 
not  do.  He  did  not  bow-string  Miss  E.  T. 
upon  the  spot.  He  merely  pigeon-holed 
her,  intending  to  write  her  a  personal  note 
upon  the  morrow. 

Next  day,  when  Dale's  thoughts  were  a 
thousand  miles  away  from  Miss  E.  T.,  she 
called.  The  young  man  from  the  outermost 
circle  of  office  guardians,  who  announced 
the  visitors,  merely,  however,  presented 
to  Dale  a  card  announcing  that  Mme. 
Leblanc,  approved  by  the  Society  of  Deco- 
rative Art,  gave  lessons  in  china  painting, 
tapestry  painting,  macrame  lace,  and  ar- 
rasene  embroidery,  either  at  the  residence 


A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 


of  pupils  or  at  her  own  house,  No.  3001 
West  Thirty-sixth  Street. 

"  That's  the  old  lady,  a  French  one,  sir," 
said  Wilson,  faintly  grinning.  "  There's 
another  one,  sir,  and  they  say  they  will  keep 
the  editor  only  one  moment." 

"  Show  them  in,  then  ;  and  mind,  call  me 
in  ten  minutes,  Wilson." 

A  moment  later  the  portal  of  multicolored 
glass  slid  noiselessly  upon  its  groove  to 
admit  the  callers.  First,  Mme.  Leblanc, 
habited  like  an  empress  of  the  lyric  stage, 
her  vast  person  gleaming  with  jet,  her 
bonnet  beplumed  after  a  fashion  recently 
introduced  under  the  style  of  "  Enterre- 
ment  de  la  premiere  classe." 

Behind  her,  a  slight  young  thing  in  a 
close-fitting  brown  frock,  with  a  veil  of 
brown  tissue  half  drawn  across  a  peach- 
tinted  face,  a  mouth  made  for  laugh- 
ter and  for  kissing,  just  now  rather  woe- 
struck  and  drooping  at  the  corners.  Dale's 


A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 


eye  took  all  this  in  while  addressing  itself 
politely  to  the  exhortation  of  Mme. 
Leblanc,  who  had  come,  she  informed 
him,  to  inquire  about  a  story  sent  by  her 
young  friend,  Miss  E.  T.,  now  some  weeks 
since. 

"Your  young  friend  is  probably  little  ac- 
customed to  the  slow  grinding  of  editorial 
mills,"  answered  Dale,  attempting  to  as- 
sume an  air  at  once  impersonal  and  fatherly; 
and  hurrying  on  he  tried  to  pave  the  way 
toward  extracting  the  MS.  from  its  pigeon- 
hole, and  conveying  it  back  to  Miss  E.  T. 
with  all  the  grace  and  ease  of  which  he  felt 
himself  to  be  master. 

"  But  are  you  sure  the  editor  has  seen 
it?  "  here  interposed  the  girl,  with  a  bridling 
of  her  small  head  that  seemed  not  to  accord 
with  the  shabby  gentility  of  her  protector. 

"  I  am  the  editor,"  Dale  answered,  some- 
what nettled  ;  "  by  to-morrow  this  story 
would  have  been  in  your  hands  again,  had 


120  A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

you  not  honored  me  to-day.  To  read  it  has 
given  me  pleasure,  and  I  sincerely  wish  it 
might  do  so  to  the  many  readers  of  our 
magazine — but " 

"There  is  no  hope  for  me?"  she  cried, 
with  the  upbraiding  of  a  child  in  her  soft 
voice,  and  to  Dale's  dismay  two  bright 
tears  rolled  down  from  under  the  brown- 
tissue  veil  upon  the  flushing  cheeks. 

Wilson's  arrival  at  that  crisis  was  a  boon 
for  which  Dale  afterward  rewarded  the 
young  man  by  the  unexplained  present  of 
a  couple  of  theater  tickets. 

"  Talk  about  thorns  in  the  editorial  cush- 
ion," Dale  remarked,  when  on  a  visit  that 
evening  to  his  convalescent  superior.  "  Dear 
old  Thackeray  knew  what  he  was  about  when 
he  wrote  that  essay.  To  have  a  pretty  girl, 
who,  no  doubt,  expected  to  feed  several 
widowed  mothers  from  the  proceeds,  come 
into  your  private  office,  and  cry  over  her 
rejected  manuscript  —  by  Jove  !  another 


A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  1 2 1 

minute,  and  I  should  have  been  wiping 
away  her  poor  dear  little  tears." 

"  It's  high  time  I  turned  out  again,"  re- 
marked the  other  grimly,  reaching  over  for 
a  cigar. 

Next  day,  what  should  Dale  do  but  settle 
himself  squarely  to  the  task  of  writing  "  E. 
T."  a  letter,  which  should  embody  all  the 
disinterested  good  advice  on  the  art  of  mod- 
ern composition,  to  supply  the  demand  of 
buyers  of  modern  magazines,  his  experience 
could  suggest.  It  was  an  excellent  letter — 
Harry  felt  with  pride — a  letter  worthy  to  be 
hektographed  and  retained  in  the  office  for 
similar  occasions — a  letter  that  would  be 
eagerly  bought  up  by  a  syndicate  to  print 
as  the  official  utterance  of  an  expert.  Might 
it  not,  therefore,  serve  as  a  peace-offering  to 
the  sorely  afflicted  Miss  E.  T.,  whose  look, 
as  she  retired  with  her  rejected  treasure,  he 
could  not  yet  forget  ?  Poor  girl  !  poor  girl ! 
No  doubt — everything  pointed  to  the  con- 


122  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

elusion — she  had  staked  an  infinity  of  hope 
upon  her  hapless  venture,  and  it  was  curious 
to  see  how  long  those  round,  pellucid  tears 
had  held  together  before  dissolving  on  the 
peach-bloom  of  her  cheek.  He  had  never 

seen  a  woman  cry  becomingly  before 

Well,  of  all  the  driveling  idiots ! 

Finding  himself  tete-a-tete  with  a  post-box, 
Dale  dropped  into  it  his  letter  to  E.  T.,  and 
dismissed — or  thought  he  did — the  subject 
from  his  mind. 

A  week  later  he  had  the  curiosity  to  turn 
his  steps  across  Sixth  Avenue,  into  the  mid- 
way region  of  one  of  those  cross-streets  that 
begin  so  well  and  finish  so  shabbily.  Within 
the  border-line  of  decrepit  respectability,  he 
found  the  house  designated  by  the  card 
of  Mme.  Leblanc.  It  was  a  recently  built 
structure,  of  brick  with  a  plaster  of  brown 
stone,  and  cheap  colored  glass  bedecked 
the  transom  of  the  front  door — a  "  flat  " 
house  of  the  most  depressing  pattern.  In 


A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  123 

the  vestibule  were  rows  of  speaking  trum- 
pets, with  the  card  of  the  owner  of  each 
tacked  above  it.  Mine.  Leblanc  lived  on 
the  fifth  floor.  He  looked  about  him  hesi- 
tatingly. On  one  side  of  the  house  was  a 
German  grocery  ;  on  the  other  the  entrance 
to  a  stable.  In  the  dirty  street,  dirty  chil- 
dren were  wrangling  at  their  play  beneath 
the  grocer's  wagon.  A  boy,  carrying  a  load 
of  kindling-wood,  jostled  him  roughly. 
Dale,  who  was  uncertain  what  he  came 
there  to  do,  found  himself  the  object  of 
speculation  from  frowsy  lodgers  who  passed 
in  and  out.  As  the  door  opened,  a  gush 
of  onions,  cooking,  rushed  forth  upon  the 
breeze. 

"  Poor  E.  T.,"  sighed  Dale,  and  turned 
away. 

During  the  spring  following  this  trivial 
episode,  Dale's  time  and  attention  were  ab- 
sorbed by  weightier  things.  "  Poems,  by 


124  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

Henry  Hillhouse  Dale,"  a  modest  volume, 
bound  in  olive  green,  with  orange  lettering, 
had  made  its  appearance  before  a  moder- 
ately startled  world.  Among  the  varied 
comments  upon  his  book,  Harry  held  sacred 
a  letter  from  his  mother,  that  had  drifted 
down  to  him  from  her  bowery  home,  as  an 
apple-blossom  falls  to  earth. 

"Oh!  my  dear,  darling  boy,"  the  letter 
ran,  "  how  shall  I  ever  tell  you  my  feelings 
when  I  cut  the  string  around  your  precious 
book?  My  hand  trembled  so,  my  heart 
beat,  and  I  couldn't  help  looking  up  at 
your  father's  picture  for  sympathy.  In  my 
delight  over  its  present  beautiful  appear- 
ance, I  will  confess  to  you  that  the  galley 
slips  you  first  sent  gave  me  many  pangs. 
I  couldn't  imagine  how  the  gold-winged 
butterfly  of  my  ambition  was  to  emerge 
from  that  dingy  chrysalis.  O,  Harry,  the 
poems  are  lovelier  than  ever !  Everybody 
must  think  so.  You  will  be  famous,  and  I 


A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  125 

shall  be  so  proud — prouder  than  before,  if 
such  a  thing  can  be — of  my  own,  clever, 
handsome,  loving  son." 

Dale  began  by  smiling  broadly,  and  ended 
by  wiping  his  eyes.  He  read  the  letter 
while  waiting  for  his  dinner  in  an  Italian 
restaurant,  and  his  sentiment  was  cut  short 
by  a  dish  of  macaroni  au  gratin,  briskly 
deposited  before  him.  By  and  by  he  took 
up  the  sheet  again. 

"  It  is  so  beautiful  in  Hillsboro,  now  ;  you 
can't  imagine  a  more  lovely  June.  The  old 
syringa  bushes  over  the  front  gate  look  as 
if  a  snow-drift  were  upon  them  ;  the  meadow 
is  full  of  big  daisies  and  buttercups  ;  the 
robins  sing  from  morning  until  night.  Do 
get  off  for  a  Sunday,  soon,  and  run  up  to 
me,  my  lad 

"  And  now  for  our  village  gossip.  It  is 
quite  true  the  old  Gardiner  homestead  has 
been  sold  to  one  of  your  New  York  capital- 
ists,  a  Mr.  Jeremiah  Thorne." 


126  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

"  Thorne,  Baker  &  Evans,  the  sugar  peo- 
ple," ejaculated  Dale.  "Alas  !  for  poor  old 
Hillsboro  !  the  Egyptians  will  despoil  her." 

"  Although  workmen  have  been  occupied 
in  overhauling  the  house  for  some  months 
past,  the  name  of  the  buyer  has  never  come 
out  till  this  week.  You  remember  my  tell- 
ing you  of  the  young  people  of  the  Thorne 
family  last  year.  They  had  rooms  at  the 
hotel,  with  their  governess  and  maids,  while 
the  father  and  mother,  and  oldest  sister,  were 
in  Europe.  This  summer  they  have  come 
again,  the  mamma  with  them,  a  faded,  over- 
dressed little  person,  who  drives  about  the 
village  streets  in  a  victoria  with  showy  horses 
and  clanking  chains.  They  are  to  move 
into  the  old  house  when  the  furniture  is  in 
order.  The  father,  who  comes  up  on  Satur- 
day evening  by  the  late  train,  and  goes  back 
on  Monday  morning,  looks  as  if  he  were  on 
springs,  so  nervous  and  restless  he  is.  It  is 
hard  to  believe  that  pair  the  parents  of  the 


A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  127 

charming  children  with  whom  I  have  already 
made  acquaintance — shall  I  tell  you  how? 

"  Last  summer,  one  of  the  little  lads  came 
up  the  garden  path,  as  bold  as  Julius  Caesar, 
to  tell  me  he  had  thrown  his  ball  across  my 
palings,  and  broken  one  of  my  tall,  white 
lilies  from  the  stalk,  and  that  he  \vished  to 
beg  my  pardon. 

"'As  for  the  lilies,  there  are  plenty  of 
them,'  I  said,  smiling  ;  '  but  there  are  not 
many  little  boys  who  think  of  an  old 
woman's  feelings  for  her  flowers.' 

"'Oh!  but  I  didn't/  he  cried  out.  'It 
was  my  sister  Nora,  who  told  me  I  must 
come,  and  Nora's  such  a  jolly  girl,  you 
know.  She's  out  there  walking  along,  wait- 
ing for  me,  and  I  must  go.' 

"'Take  Nora  this  lily  and  another,  won't 
you?'  I  said,  putting  the  flowers  in  a  rather 
grimy  little  paw.  He  ran  off  with  a  merry 
'Thank  you,'  and  I  saw  him  join  a  girl,  who 
bent  down  and  kissed  him  as  he  handed 


128  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

her  the  lilies.  A  Sunday  or  two  later  I 
met  Master  Tom  Thome  with  his  sister 
coming  out  of  church,  and  we  struck  up 
a  conversation  based  upon  the  lilies. 
Until  the  other  day  I  saw  no  more  of 
them.  Last  week  Tom  and  Nora,  accom- 
panied by  a  splendid  collie  dog,  passed  by 
our  house,  and  the  dog,  dashing  in,  threat- 
ened to  devastate  my  poppy  bed.  To  call  him 
away  brought  the  two  young  people  to  our 
gate,  and  as  I  was  working  among  my  flowers, 
they  stopped  awhile  to  aid  me,  Tom  with 
more  zeal  than  discretion,  I'm  afraid.  All 
this  time  I  haven't  told  you  that  Nora  is 
a  darling  ;  sweet,  unspoiled,  impulsive,  just 
what  I  should  have  wished  your  poor  sister 
to  have  grown  up  had  she  lived.  It  is  in- 
credible that  she  should  belong  to  those 
Thornes,  who  are  essentially  commonplace 
and  self-important  people.  This  girl  lives 
her  own  life  apart  from  theirs,  it's  plain. 
She  is  fond  of  nature,  out-door  sports,  of 


A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  129 

dogs,  of  the  company  of  her  brother  Tom. 
She  is  well  poised,  mentally,  and  'hath  a 
pretty  wit.'  Altogether,  her  society  is 
agreeable  to  me,  and,  if  this  is  not  an  old 
woman's  vanity,  I  fancy  mine  is  to  her. 
She  caught  sight  of  the  shelves  full  of  by- 
gone books  in  our  sitting-room,  and  begged 
my  leave  to  look  at  them.  Since  then 
hardly  a  day  has  passed  that  I  have  not 
had  her  at  the  house.  What  will  you  say 
now  to  the  old  lady's  romantic  attachment  ?  " 

Next  week  Harry's  letter  from  Hillsboro 
contained  more  details  of  his  mother's  new- 
found friendship : 

"  What  more  natural  than  that  our  con- 
versation should  frequently  turn  upon  you  ? 
Nora  looked  at  your  old  college  photograph, 
but  said  little  in  comment.  Of  course,  that 
was  because  it  never  did  you  justice,  dear. 
With  your  present  beard  and  mustache, 
too,  it  can  hardly  be  said  to  resemble  you. 
When,  however,  she  came  to  take  up  my 


13°  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

copy  of  your  poems,  and  saw  what  you  had 
written  on  the  fly  leaf — that  dear  inscription 
offering  your  first  fruits  of  poetry  to  me — 
her  face  brightened.  Was  it  possible  that  I 
was  the  mother  of — this  '  Henry  Hillhouse 
Dale  '  was  the  '  Harry '  who — why,  for  a 
year  past  she  had  been  cutting  everything 
signed  by  that  name  out  of  the  newspapers 
and  pasting  it  in  her  scrap-book !  When 
your  poems  were  announced,  she  had  sent 
an  immediate  order  to  her  bookseller  to  for- 
ward to  her  a  copy  of  the  book  as  soon  as  it 
was  published." 

"  That's  tangible  !  "  said  Dale.  "  I  like 
that  kind  of  an  admirer.  Unfortunately, 
the  crop  is  limited.  I  like  her  scrap-book, 
too." 

"  She  is  immensely  interested  in  the  Cos- 
mos magazine ;  says  her  father  has  taken  it 
for  years,  and  approves  of  it  as  a  distinct 
business  success  of  a  pure  American  type, 
although  she  has  never  seen  him  do  much 


A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 


more  than  glance  over  the  pictures.  She 
asked  me  all  sorts  of  questions  about  your 
staff  —  the  editor-in-chief,  particularly.  I 
said  I  had  never  met  him,  but  believed 
him  to  be  a  most  worthy  gentleman. 
Next,  she  wanted  to  know  if  he  is  married, 
and  I  told  her  yes,  to  such  a  pretty  wife, 
and  that  their  twins  are,  to  judge  from 
what  you  said,  a  most  wonderful  pair  of 
children." 

Dale's  mid-summer  holiday  with  his 
mother  was  spent  at  a  seashore  resort  upon 
the  Jersey  coast,  instead  of,  as  usual,  at  Hills- 
boro,  and  it  was  not  until  late  in  September 
that  he  again  visited  his  home.  The  autumn 
fires  had  begun  to  kindle  in  swamp  and  for- 
est, and  all  nature  was  in  readiness  to  cele- 
brate that  season  which  makes  of  Berkshire 
one  of  earth's  rarest  garden  spots.  Harry 
knew  every  station  on  the  dusty,  dislo- 
cating Housatonic  Railway  —  every  shoulder 


*32  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

of  the  hills,  every  brawling  torrent,  every 
manufactory  and  wayside  village  was  dear 
to  him.  When  he  reached  home,  it  was 
with  a  school-boy's  fervor  that  he  threw  his 
arms  around  his  mother's  neck  and  kissed 
her.  He  had  walked  ahead  of  the  lumbering 
stage,  had  burst  in,  unannounced,  and,  in 
his  glee,  did  not  perceive  the  presence 
of  a  young  woman,  who  had  quietly  with- 
drawn as  he  entered  his  mother's  sitting 
room. 

"  Harry  !  why,  Harry  !  "  cried  breathless 
Mrs.  Dale.  Then  looking  around,  she 
added :  "  How  nice  that  you  should  meet 
Nora  in  this  informal  way.  Well,  she's  gone 
by  the  side  porch,  after  all  the  trouble  she's 
taken  to  arrange  the  flowers.  It's  really  too 
bad." 

Harry,  politely  sympathetic,  did  not  feel 
particularly  sorry  to  miss  the  encounter. 
He  looked  around  him  full  of  satisfaction  in 
the  old  room,  so  fresh  and  smart  with  new 


A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  133 

chintzes,  and  with  late  roses  in  every  vase 
and  corner. 

"  It  never  looked  so  nice,"  he  said,  com- 
placently. 

"Yes,  we've  worked  hard,"  Mrs.  Dale 
answered,  with  a  sagacious  nod.  "Nora 
put  all  sorts  of  ideas  into  my  head 
about  turning  and  twisting  furniture,  and 
scattering  odds  and  ends  around  the  tables. 
Girls  are  all  that  way,  nowadays,  it  seems. 
O  Harry !  you  must  like  Nora,  if  it's 
only  for  the  sake  of  the  poor  sister  you 
lost." 

A  method  of  reasoning  not  very  clear  to 
Dale,  but  he  acquiesced,  lazily,  and  before 
the  day  was  out,  found  himself  even 
wondering  when  the  much-bepraised  Miss 
Nora  would  show  up.  To  Mrs.  Dale's  regret, 
the  young  lady  was  out  on  horseback  when 
the  widow  called  next  morning,  in  due  form, 
with  her  son.  The  same  ill  luck  attended 
several  attempted  meetings  until,  out  of 


134  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

patience,  Mrs.  Dale  sent  a  note  containing 
an  invitation  to  tea,  so  couched  that  Miss 
Thorne  could  not,  in  courtesy,  decline  it. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  therefore,  enter 
Miss  Nora  Thorne,  her  head  well  up,  a  flush 
upon  her  cheeks,  her  erect,  young  figure 
attired  with  what  seemed  to  her  enter- 
tainers rather  unusual  splendor  for  a  cot- 
tage banquet.  As  Dale  took  the  cold 
hand  she  held  out  to  him,  he  became  con- 
scious of  a  familiar  line  of  lips  and  chin, 
of  a  pearly  texture  of  the  skin  around 
them,  of  a  certain  dimple  lying  in  wait 
for  an  -opportunity  to  appear  near  the 
left-hand  corner  of  the  mouth. 

"You — you  are  not  E.  T.  ?"  he  stam- 
mered, with  all  a  man's  bluntness. 

"I  am  Eleanora  Thorne,"  the  girl  said 
with  dignity. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Harry?"  asked  the 
puzzled  widow. 

"A  stupid  mistake  of  mine,   that's  all," 


A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  135 

"""* 

Dale  said,  smothering  a  strong  desire  to 
laugh.  To  Nora  it  was  evidently  not  a 
joke. 

A  week  of  ambient  atmosphere,  of  un- 
premeditated meetings,  of  rambles  in  the 
rainbow  woods,  of  talks  beside  the  dropping 
embers  in  the  widow's  sitting  room,  broke 
down  the  barrier,  as  not  a  year's  acquaint- 
ance in  city  limits  could  have  done. 

"  Chiefly  because  you  have  never  asked 
me,"  said  Nora  to  Dale  one  evening  at  the 
hour  of  blind  man's  holiday,  when  his 
mother  had  left  the  two  young  people  to- 
gether for  a  space,  "I  will  tell  you  about 
that  adventure  of  mine.  First  of  all,  I 
honestly  believed  my  story  was  a  good 
one." 

"So  say  we  all  of  us,"  answered  Dale,  but 
not  with  malice. 

"Then,  my  father,  who  was  rather  proud 
of  my  taking  so  many  first-composition 


136  A   THORN  Iff  HIS  CUSHION. 

prizes  at  school,  told  me  he  would  give  me 
$500  for  our  'Baby  Shelter'  in  New  York 
(I'm  the  secretary,  you  know,  and  a  lot  of  us 
girls  work  hard  for  it)  if  I  could  succeed  in 
getting  an  article  accepted  by  a  first-class 
magazine.  Naturally,  I  thought  of  the 
Cosmos" 

"  Thanks.  So  many  writers  do,"  mur- 
mured Dale. 

"Oh!  You  needn't  be  sarcastic.  I  don't 
mind  you,  now.  It  was  only  when  I  thought 
you  were  the  editor.  The  real  thing,  you 
know.  Well,  I  wrote  that  story,  and  pol- 
ished it  and  copied  it  and  sent  it,  and  then, 
while  I  was  waiting  to  hear  about  it,  I 
thought  I  should  die.  I  did  not  dare  take 
anyone  at  home  into  my  confidence,  and  so 
I  sent  for  old  Leblanc,  the  teacher  of  our 
china-painting  class  at  school,  the  best  old 
soul.  They  say  she  supports  an  ancient 
father  (exactly  like  old  Time,  with  a  velvet 
cap  on)  in  her  rooms,  somewhere  on  the 


A    THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  137 

West  Side,  and  that  she  has  to  feed  and 
dress  him  like  a  child." 

"  And  I,  who  believed  you  to  be  a  scion 
of  the  house  Leblanc !  Why,  the  senti- 
ment I  wasted  in  that  vestibule!" 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  Oh ! 
Yes,  I  remember  your  letter ;  that  letter 
came  through  madame  to  me." 

"Why  do  you  say  'that  letter'  with 
such  a  sniff  of  contempt  ?  It  appears  to 
me,  as  I  remember  it,  that  letter  was  a 
model." 

"  Of  conceit  and  condescension,  certainly," 
said  Miss  Thorne,  with  much  amusement. 
"  I  don't  believe  patronage  could  farther  go. 
One  might  have  supposed  you  to  be  as  old 
as  old  Monsieur  Leblanc.  But  then,  luckily, 
I  had  seen  you." 

"  The  recollection  seems  to  have  afforded 
you  solace  in  your  trial,"  said  Harry,  piqued. 

"  I  don't  deny  what  you  said  was  clever. 
Perhaps  it  was  just,  although  it  did  seem  to 


138  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

me  rather  ridiculous  that  the  only  part  you 
singled  out  for  praise  was  the  passage-at- 
arms  between  Agnes  and  her  great-aunt 
about  the  Sunday  bonnet." 

"Yes,  the  Sunday  bonnet,"  repeated 
Dale,  who  was  just  then  wandering  a  little 
in  admiration  of  the  way  Nora's  loose  hair 
curled  in  fluffy  rings  upon  the  back  of  her 
neck.  "  Oh — yes  ;  as  I  said,  the  Sunday 
bonnet.  That  was  natural,  sprightly,  a  bit 
of  everyday  life  photographically  repro- 
duced. What  I  told  you  then,  I  mean. 
You  have  undoubted  power  of  expression. 
With  years  of  practice,  you  might  in  time 
come  to  write  acceptable  stories  for  our 
magazines.  But,  oh !  there  are  so  many 
people  who  write  acceptable  stories,  and  so 
few  like  you,  who — 

"  Mr.  Dale  !  "  said  Nora,  interrupting  him, 
"  I  can't  think  what  is  the  matter  with  you. 
You  are  not  a  bit  like  yourself,  generally. 
Your  mind  is  not  in  the  least  fixed  on  the 


A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION.  139 

subject  of  our  talk.  Now,  please  brace  up 
and  pay  me  some  attention." 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  said  Harry  helplessly. 
"  That's  exactly  what  I'm  doing.  Too  much 
for  my  own  good." 

"  I  want  to  start  fresh  with  you,  and  ask 
you  to  be  my  friend  and  helper.  I  believe 
your  letter,  hateful  as  it  was  to  take — like  a 
particularly  big  pill — did  me  good.  I  don't 
agree  to  give  up  scribbling.  Perhaps  I  may 
write  one  good,  short  story,  publish  it  in  the 
Cosmos,  and  then  expire  of  pride.  But  I 
don't  even  promise  that " 

"  Promise  only  to  enchant  me  as  you  do 
now,  forever,"  said  the  irrelevant  young 
man,  with  deplorable  impetuosity.  Nora's 
heart  gave  a  great  rejoicing  bound.  She  did 
not  believe  her  ears.  He  was  outrageous, 
deserving  of  instant  punishment.  Her  over- 
powering desire  was  to  jump  up  and  run  out 
of  the  room.  But  she  did  nothing  of  the 
kind. 


140  A   THORN  IN  HIS  CUSHION. 

Dale  went  back  to  town  glorified.  The 
"thorn  in  his  cushion  "  had  been  made  to 
blossom  like  a  rose. 

As  far  as  heard  from,  Nora  has  never  be- 
come a  contributor  to  the  Cosmos  magazine, 
unless,  perhaps,  indirectly — a  state  of  things 
seeming  to  give  equal  satisfaction  to  all 
concerned. 


MR.  CLENDENNING 
PIPER. 


MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER  will  be  remem- 
bered as  the  aspirant  to  fashion  who,  ap- 
pearing at  one  or  two  places  of  summer 
resort  a  few  years  since,  the  proprietor 
of  a  well-set-up  four-in-hand,  spilt  vari- 
ous confiding  parties  of  guests,  sprained 
the  ankles  of  at  least  three  women, 
and  reduced  several  promising  young 
dudes  to  the  condition  of  football  cham- 
pions after  a  prize  match,  before  pub- 
lic opinion  prevailed  on  him  to  lay  the 
ribbons  down  and  part  with  his  outfit  at 
such  price  as  it  would  fetch.  Mr.  Piper, 
while  he  is  written  down  a  resident  and 


I42  MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER. 

voter  of  New  York,  has  been  little  seen 
there  during  the  season  when  the  society 
of  which  he  desires  to  form  a  part  is  en- 
gaged in  its  dizzy  round  of  diurnal  pleas- 
ures. Although  no  one,  to  gaze  upon  his 
cherubic  proportions  and  cheeks  perma- 
nently blushing  like  lady  apples,  would  give 
him  credit  for  weakness  of  the  lungs,  he 
has  thrown  out  a  hint  to  the  effect  that  his 
physicians  insist  upon  his  wintering  in 
Florida  ;  and  to  the  Oriental  splendors  of 
the  Ponce  de  Leon  he  has  accordingly 
allied  himself  not  infrequently.  Ill-natured 
people  say  that  he  avoids  New  York  be- 
cause he  has  failed  to  get  into  certain 
clubs  for  which  his  small  soul  yearns  ;  but 
then  people  are  so  ill-natured  !  Those  who 
have  whispered  these  legends  oftenest,  it 
must  be  observed,  have  eaten  Mr.  Piper's 
dinners,  drunk  his  wines,  and  used  his 
horses  whenever  bidden  to  do  so  outside  of 
the  metropolis. 


MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER.  M3 

Reputed  to  be  the  heir  of  ancestral  mil- 
lions, Mr.  Piper  might  have  been,  nay  is,  a 
planet  of  the  first  importance  in  the  hori- 
zons below  the  empyrean  where  he  aspires 
to  rule.  "  What  !  You  don't  know  Mr. 
Clendenning  Piper?"  inquire  in  astonish- 
ment the  denizens  of  cities  where  the  little 
man  has  managed  to  get  a  foothold  in  so- 
ciety, of  their  friends  within  the  penetralia 
of  New  York.  "  Why,  down  here  he  is  no 
end  of  a  swell.  Mrs.  Druid  Park,  under 
the  impression  that  he  belonged  to  your 
smart  set,  you  know,  had  him  at  her 
autumn  house  party.  And  the  Schuylkills 
took  him  on  their  yacht,  and  the  F.  F. 
Richmonds  got  him  to  lead  their  cotillon 
when  they  brought  out  their  oldest  girl," 
etc.,  etc.,  etc.  And  still  the  portals  Mr. 
Piper  longs  to  enter  in  New  York  open  not ! 

The  little  episode  of  his  checkered  career 
which  I  am  about  to  divulge  had  its  origin 
in  an  expedition  at  Bar  Harbor,  arranged 


144  MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER. 

by  him  in  honor  of  a  certain  Mrs.  Penfold, 
greatly  in  vogue  that  season  upon  the 
plank-walk,  in  hotel  verandas,  and  on  the 
rattling  parties  by  buckboard  to  sup  at 
Somesville,  across  the  island,  and  drive  home 
by  light  of  the  moon.  Mrs.  Penfold,  like 
Mr.  Piper,  was  a  newcomer  of  antecedents 
vague — a  widow  of  several  years'  standing, 
not  particularly  young,  or  pretty,  or  rich, 
and  not  accomplished,  save  in  the  one  ex- 
quisite  art  of  making  herself  agreeable  to  the 
person  with  whom  it  was  her  lot  to  be  tempo- 
rarily thrown.  Added  to  this  she  had  large, 
dark  eyes,  a  knack  of  telling  fortunes  of  the 
most  flattering  elasticity  of  bounds,  and 
waltzed  so  well  as  to  accentuate  her  com- 
plaisance in  allowing  Mr.  Piper,  who  spins 
like  a  teetotum,  to  take  her  out  for  many  a 
turn  at  the  Kebo  Valley  dances.  Like  Mr. 
Piper,  Mrs.  Penfold  knew  herself  to  be  as  yet 
a  burr  on  the  outer  skirts  of  society.  The 
tabbies  of  the  hotel  said  many  unkind  things 


MR.   CLENDENNING  PIPER.  145 

of  her  flirtations,  and  she  was  as  yet  unrecog- 
nized by  the  social  autocrats  who  make  or 
mar.  Like  him,  too,  she  had  industry,  per- 
sistence in  shedding  snubs,  good  temper, 
and  a  secret  determination  to  get  on. 
Recognizing  fellowship,  Mr.  Piper  felt  at 
first  inclined  to  avoid  rather  than  to 
fraternize  with  this  doubtful  little  person  ; 
but  finding  himself  seated  at  her  table  at 
the  Merry-Go-Round  Hotel,  and  exposed 
daily  to  the  appeal  of  her  pathetic  eyes  and 
ways,  his  reserve  melted.  When  his  new 
naphtha  launch  came  around  from  Boston, 
he  went  so  far  as  to  ask  Mrs.  Penfold  to 
preside  over  his  initial  party  for  a  run  about 
Frenchman's  Bay. 

Passing  over  the  details  of  this  entertain- 
ment, when  Mr.  Piper,  like  a  grand  pasha, 
surrounded  himself  chiefly  with  fair  females, 
and  a  couple  of  men  so  insignificant  that  ri- 
valry was  not  to  be  feared;  when,  clad  in  all 
the  latest  coquetries  of  male  nautical  attire, 


146  MR.   CLENDENNING  PIPER. 

he  stood  like  Pleasure  at  the  Prow;  when, 
after  the  champagne  and  sandwiches  and 
marsh  mallows  had  been  exhausted,  it  was 
discovered  that  the  naphtha  had  followed 
suit,  and  that  it  was  necessary,  then  several 
miles  beyond  Bald  Rock,  to  row  the  launch 
to  shore — it  will  suffice  to  say  that  Mrs.  Pen- 
fold's  amiability,  her  two  Spanish  songs,  her 
conundrums  and  her  fortune-telling  carried 
the  day,  and  Mr.  Piper  fell  in  love. 

Everybody  predicted  that  the  wise  little 
widow  would,  before  Christmas,  have  the 
lawful  spending  of  Mr.  Piper's  shekels  ;  but 
no  engagement  was  announced.  For  rea- 
sons best  known  to  herself  she  kept  his 
proposal  at  arm's  length.  He  and  she,  and 
the  gay  revelers  of  a  season,  drifted  away 
from  Bar  Harbor  long  before  the  first  leaves 
had  left  the  trees,  and  nobody  knew  that 
Mrs.  Penfold  had  given  her  Piper  leave  to 
speak  definitely,  with  the  hope  of  a  not  un- 
favorable reply,  during  the  first  week  of 


MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER.  147 

December,  at  her  apartments  in  New  York. 
Mr.  Piper  sighed  at  his  probation,  but  ac- 
quiesced. He  was,  by  that  time,  bowled  by 
the  tender  passion  completely  off  his  feet. 
What  to  do  with  the  intervening  months, 
for  she  had  exacted  that  he  was  to  keep  his 
distance  from  New  York,  he  could  not  tell. 
So  he  got  aboard  a  steamer,  turned  up  a 
week  later  in  London,  drifted  to  Paris,  and 
while  there  had  the  signal  good  fortune  to 
save  from  annihilation,  by  an  omnibus  upon 
the  asphalt,  the  Skye  terrier  of  Mrs.  De- 
lancey  Griffith,  a  potentate  of  fashion  in 
New  York.  This  lady,  who  wept  real  tears 
upon  the  restoration  of  her  jewel,  could  not, 
upon  further  acquaintance  with  his  rescuer, 
say  enough  of  her  obligation  to  Mr.  Piper. 
She  murmured  something  about  seeing  him 
often  when  they  should  be  back  in  town, 
hinted  at  tickets  to  her  opera-box,  and  cups 
of  tea  at  her  Thursdays,  and  finally  crystal- 
lized into  an  invitation  to  him  to  a  Christ- 


148  MR.   CLENDENNING  PIPER. 

mas  party  which  she  had  promised  to  chap- 
erone  for  her  brother,  at  his  country  place  on 
the  Sound.  The  latter  suggestion  was  to  Mr. 
Clendenning  Piper  like  the  vision  of  a  Vic- 
toria Cross  to  an  English  soldier  of  the  line. 
He  knew  that  the  hospitalities  of  the 
brother  in  question,  Mr.  Peter  Percival,  were 
mentioned  in  the  society  columns  of  the 
newspapers  as  courted  by  the  exclusive 
world.  He  knew  of  Mr.  Peter  Percival  him- 
self as  a  man  of  many  clubs,  well-born,  well- 
placed,  and  rich  ;  a  bachelor  on  the  shady 
side  of  fifty,  for  whom  nets  matrimonial  had 
long  been  vainly  spread  ;  given  to  rallying 
about  him  choice  gatherings  of  people,  and 
setting  before  them  something  original  in 
his  programme  for  the  day  or  week.  But, 
luckily  for  him,  Mr.  Piper  did  not  know  that 
Mrs.  Griffith  had  said,  inwardly,  before 
bestowing  on  him  the  eagerly-accepted  invi- 
tation :  "  I  must  do  something  for  this 
funny  little  man  who  saved  my  darling 


MR.   CLENDENNING  PIPER.  149 

Fussy.  Peter's  Christmas  party  will  more 
than  pay  him  up,  and  I  can  drop  him  after 
that.  Peter  is  so  good-natured  he  won't 
mind,  and,  besides,  it  will  set  off  some 
horrid  new  creature  he'll  be  sure  to  discover 
and  expect  me  to  countenance  because  she 
plays  on  the  zither,  or  recites,  or  whistles, 
or  dear  knows  what !  " 

By  the  time  Mr.  Piper  again  set  foot  upon 
his  native  shore,  many  ideas  had  chased  each 
other  through  his  alleged  mind.  Upon  the 
threshold  of  a  new  existence,  as  it  were  a 
new  birth  into  fashionable  life,  he  had  found 
himself  gravely  hampered  by  ties  which, 
viewed  in  absence  and  cooler  judgment  had 
become  quite  another  thing.  As  the  day 
drew  near  to  present  himself  before  the  lady 
of  his  love,  he  saw,  unmistakably,  that,  as 
the  affianced  husband  of  an  insignificant  Mrs. 
Penfold,  his  chances  of  becoming  a  familiar 
member  of  Mrs.  Griffith's  circle  would  be 
narrowed  hopelessly.  He  rued  the  hour 


MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER. 


in  which  he  had  visited  Bar  Harbor  and 
taken  his  quarters  at  the  Merry-Go-Round 
Hotel.  Mrs.  Penfold's  mature  age,  the  lines 
around  her  eyes,  suspicion  of  the  faint 
bloom  on  her  cheek,  conviction  of  her  want 
of  style,  haunted  him  ceaselessly  ..... 
After  much  mental  anguish,  he  decided  up- 
on the  course  of  sending  to  her  address  a 
huge  box  of  American  Beauty  roses,  with 
a  bonbonniere  of  extravagant  proportions, 
and  a  note  regretting  that,  acting  upon  the 
peremptory  advice  of  his  physician,  he  was 
compelled  to  pass  directly  through  New 
York  and  go  South,  for  a  period  to  which 
no  limit  had  been  set.  To  justify  himself, 
he  arranged  to  visit  the  Hygeia  Hotel  at 
Old  Point  Comfort,  and  remain  there  until 
Christmas  week. 

The  invitation  given  by  Mrs.  Griffith  to 
Mr.  Percival's  country  house  having  been 
duly  seconded  by  that  complaisant  gentle- 


MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER. 


man,  we  may  now  behold  Mr.  Piper  on  the 
eve  of  realizing  his  fondest  hopes.  Fortified 
by  an  English  valet  and  an  outfit  of  English 
clothes,  he  stood  ready  to  join,  at  their 
rendezvous  at  the  Grand  Central  Station 
upon  the  morrow,  the  party  to  which  Mrs. 
Griffith  had  decreed  that  he  should  be  an- 
nexed. Fevered  with  excitement,  he  spent 
the  last  evening  at  the  play,  somewhere,  and 
on  returning  to  his  rooms,  found  awaiting 
him  a  bombshell  in  the  shape  of  a  com- 
munication running  thus  : 

"  Mrs.  Delancey  Griffith's  compliments  to 
Mr.  Piper,  and  regrets  that  owing  to  cir- 
cumstances over  which  she  has  no  control 
the  party  projected  for  to-morrow  is  indefi- 
nitely postponed.  As  Mrs.  Griffith  is  im- 
mediately leaving  town,  she  will  also  be 
debarred  from  receiving  her  friends  on 
Thursdays,  as  proposed." 

"  What  on  earth  have  they  heard  against 
me  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Piper,  wiping  the  cold 


152  MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER. 

sweat  of  misery  from  his  haggard  brow. 
"  Can  it  be  the  newspapers  have  been  pub- 
lishing something  about  my  engagement  to 
that  hanged  little  widow  ?  " 

He  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  next 
morning  read  in  the  journals  served  to 
him  with  his  coffee,  announcements  of  the 
surprising  marriage  of  the  great  Mr.  Peter 
Percival  with  a  Mrs.  Agnes  Blanche  Pen- 
fold,  unknown  in  the  smart  set,  but  said  to 
be  a  widow  encountered  by  the  magnate 
on  a  steamer  coming  from  England  a  few 
months  back.  The  wedding,  occurring  at  a 
quiet  uptown  church  the  day  before,  had 
not  been  previously  announced,  to  Mr. 
Percival's  family,  and  was  now  a  subject 
of  lively  comment  in  clubs  and  drawing 
rooms. 

"  So  that  was  her  game,  the  little  ser- 
pent !  "  spluttered  Mr.  Piper  in  a  rage ; 
"  she  wanted  to  hold  on  to  me  for  fear  of 
not  landing  him  !" — a  mixture  of  metaphors 


MR.   CLENDENNING  PIPER.  153 

which,  interspersed  with  language  not  fit- 
ting to  record,  may  be  pardoned  our  hero  at 
this  point. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peter  Percival  traveled  for 
some  months,  and  by  the  time  they  were 
ready  to  reopen  the  family  mansion  in  New 
York,  so  many  more  startling  dtfnoue- 
ments  had  been  reached  in  society  that 
they  had  almost  ceased  to  be  discussed. 
Mrs.  Percival,  indeed,  soon  conquered  all 
prejudices,  save  those  of  her  sister-in-law, 
Mrs.  Delancey  Griffith.  She  makes  quite  a 
model  great  lady,  and  dispenses  her  boun- 
ties to  the  fashionable  world  with  a  tactful 
and  not  too  lavish  hand.  Mr.  Piper,  who  is 
of  a  forgiving  nature,  left  his  card  at  the 
Percivals'  soon  after  her  installation  in  New 
York  ;  but  as  he  was  not  included  in  the 
invitation  to  her  first  general  crush,  and  was 
hopelessly  cut  by  her  in  the  lobby  of  the 
Opera  House  soon  after,  he  is,  at  last 


154  MR.  CLENDENNING  PIPER. 

accounts,  on  the  lookout  for  some  other 
loophole  by  which  to  get  into  our  best 
society.  Neither  he  nor  the  late  Mrs. 
Penfold  has  since  favored  Bar  Harbor 
with  a  visit. 


JENNY, 
THE  DEBUTANTE 


ONE  fine  day  in  spring,  a  rattling  fiacre, 
driven  by  a  red-nosed,  red-waistcoated,  and 
quarrelsome  old  coachman,  pulled  up  with 
a  jerk  before  the  door  of  the  "  Ladies  of  the 
Sacred  Heart,"  in  a  quiet  boulevard  of  Paris. 

Out  of  this  equipage,  stopping  on  the 
sidewalk  to  pick  the  straws  from  her  respect- 
able black-worsted  ankles,  stepped  a  stout 
woman  with  beetling  brows  that  met  over  a 
hooked  nose. 

She    wore  a   black   stuff  frock   and    red 

striped    jacket  with  a  clean  fluted   cap,    a 

costume  that  indicates  her  class.     She  was, 

in   fact,  the  bonne,  or  maid-of-all-work,  sent 

*  First  published  in  Wide  A  wake. 


I56  JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 

by  Mrs.  Platt  to  accompany  that  lady's  two 
young  daughters  back  from  their  convent 
boarding-school  to  the  fifth-floor  apartment 
in  the  Rue  Vernet  that  served  them  as  a 
home. 

Annette,  at  ordinary  times  so  fierce  and 
and  bustling,  had  like  a  true  Frenchwoman 
made  ready  for  her  outing  by  putting  on  a  sort 
of  holiday  face.  She  even  exchanged  grim 
jokes  with  the  cocker  as  that  functionary, 
whipping  from  underneath  an  oil-skin  petti- 
coat around  his  box  a  black  bottle  and  a 
piece  of  cheese  wrapped  in  a  copy  of  Le  Petit 
Journal,  with  a  yard  or  so  of  bread,  settled 
himself  fora  comfortable  lunch. 

Upon  this  spectacle  the  eyes  of  the  two 
girls  rested,  when  they  came  out  of  the 
convent,  the  great  doors  of  the  best  home 
they  had  ever  known  clanging  behind  them 
sharply. 

"  So  this  is  your  fairy  chariot,  Jenny,  you 
little  goose  ?  "  Estelle  said  scornfully. 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  157 

Jenny  could  not  answer.  As  they  turned 
the  corner  of  the  street  she  leaned  out  to 
look  her  last  at  the  familiar  walls  of  the  be- 
loved Sacred  Heart.  For  the  remainder  of 
the  drive  her  little  cotton  pocket-handker- 
chief was  saturated  with  very  honest  tears. 

"  Do  stop  crying,  Jenny,"  said  her  sister. 
"  For  my  part,  bad  as  it  is,  I  am  thankful 
for  any  change  from  that  poky  place.  It 
was  perfectly  ridiculous  of  mamma  to  keep 
us  there  so  long." 

At  Rue  Vernet,  leaving  Annette  and  the 
driver  to  indulge  in  the  usual  wrangle  over 
the  fare  and  drink-money,  the  girls  ran  with 
light  footsteps  up  four  long  flights  of  stairs. 
The  door  was  opened  for  them  by  their 
mother,  dressed  in  a  tumbled  tea-gown  of 
blue  china-silk,  trimmed  with  an  abundance 
of  not  over-clean  lace.  Mrs.  Platt's  face 
looked  pinched  and  tired,  under  the  forest 
of  blond  curls  she  wore  when  not  adorned 
with  crimping  pins. 


158  JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 

"  My  dear,"  said  this  lady,  kissing  Estelle 
on  either  check,  then  holding  her  off  for  a 
survey,  "  you  really  surpass  my  hopes.  One 
can  never  tell  how  a  complexion  will  clear 
up.  Yes, you  may  go  directly  into  the  salon, 
my  child.  A  friend  of  mine,  Monsieur  de 
Patras,  has  come  to  breakfast." 

"Mamma!"  said  an  appealing  voice. 

"  O  Jenny!  is  that  you,  child?  And 
that's  the  cashmere  ?  How  badly  it  has 
worn !  I  declare  you're  browner  than 
before  !  The  very  image  of  your  father's 
people !  Go  into  my  bedroom — or  no, 
you'd  better  help  Annette.  Do  keep  her 
in  a  good  humor  and  coax  her  to  make  an 
omelette  with  jam.  I'm  sure  that  woman's 
temper  will  bring  me  to  my  grave." 

Jenny  dressed  the  salad,  arranged  a  few 
grapes  and  pears,  tidied  the  scantily  served 
table,  and  at  last,  to  soothe  the  now  raging 
Annette,  undertook  to  make  the  coffee,  and 
to  watch  the  omelette.  She  heard  Estelle 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  159 

singing,  at  the  little  cracked  piano,  a  song 
from  the  "  Noces  de  Jeannette  "  they  had 
both  learned  at  the  convent : 

Cours,  mon  aiguille,  dans  la  laine. 

And  afterward  the  approving  voice  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Patras,  crying  "Brava,  brava !  " 
She  caught  a  glimpse  of  that  gentleman  sit- 
ting on  a  little  sofa  nursing  his  hat  and 
stick,  and  his  moustachios  amused  her 
mightily. 

By  the  time  Jenny  found  an  opportunity 
to  eat  her  own  scrappy  midday  meal,  Estelle 
and  her  mamma  had  gone  off  to  drive  in 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  in  Monsieur  de 
Patras's  carriage. 

"  And  you  will  dine  afterward  with  me  at 
the  restaurateur's,  chere  Madame?"  the 
Baron  had  said,  in  setting  out.  "  Perhaps  it 
will  amuse  Mademoiselle  to  visit  the  spec- 
tacle at  the  Chatelet,  this  evening." 

"  You  are  too  good,  Monsieur,  to  my  little 


160  JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 

convent-bred  girl,"  madame  had  answered, 
fluttering  with  satisfaction.  "  Think  what 
it  has  been  to  me  to  be  separated  from  this 
dear  angel ; "  at  which  moment  Annette, 
putting  her  blunt  head  in  at  the  door,  had 
summoned  her  mistress  to  know  what  she  ex- 
pected to  have  for  dinner,  now  that  the  chops 
had  been  sacrificed  to  the  "  second  dejeuner" 

"How  dare  you  interrupt  me  ?"  said  the 
lady  in  a  sharp  whisper.  "  Idiot !  cook  any- 
thing you  have.  Mademoiselle  and  I  do  not 
return  till  after  the  spectacle  to-night." 

Poor  little  Jenny,  who  would  have  given 
her  eyes  to  see  the  old  story  of  Cin- 
derella acted  with  a  hundred  tricks  of  stage- 
craft about  which  all  Paris  had  been  talk- 
ing latterly,  was  forgotten.  Luckily,  the 
girls  in  the  convent  school,  except  those 
who,  when  at  home  for  the  holidays,  were 
taken  by  their  guardians  to  see  an  occasional 
fairy  piece,  knew  very  little  about  theat- 
rical delights.  Jenny,  too,  was  accustomed 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  161 

through  long  habit  to  give  up  to  Estelle  ; 
and,  in  unpacking  their  boxes  and  practicing 
a  while  on  the  piano,  the  afternoon  was 
passed  not  unpleasantly.  Old  Annette, 
mollified  by  her  helpfulness,  managed  to 
prepare  for  her  tea  a  delicious  dish  of  toasted 
rusk,  with  apples  spiced  and  roasted  and  a 
tiny  pot  of  cream. 

"  For  with  that  charcutier  at  the  corner, 
insisting  as  he  does  on  being  paid,  ma  foi" 
the  woman  said,  "  another  scrap  of  meat 
this  day  is  not  a  thing  to  think  of." 

The  first  day  of  Jenny's  life  at  home  was 
a  sample  of  those  that  followed.  She  used 
often  to  think  longingly  of  the  merry  com- 
panionship of  the  girls  at  the  Sacre  Cceur. 
She  missed  more  than  she  could  say  the 
gentle  sympathy  of  Sister  Genevieve,  the 
nun  who  had  been  "  faither  an'  mither  an' 
a',"  to  the  two  young  Americans  growing  up 
in  her  charge. 


162  JENNY,   THE  DEBUTANTE. 

For  Mrs.  Platt,  who  had  been  a  widow 
ever  since  Jenny's  babyhood,  had  long  ago 
fallen  in  with  the  vagrant,  hand-to-mouth 
style  of  living  pursued  by  a  certain  number 
of  her  country  people  in  Europe.  It  had 
been  to  her  a  great  convenience  to  tuck 
away  Estelle  and  J'enny  in  the  safe  precincts 
of  the  convent  school  while  she  traveled 
about  in  the  wake  of  a  floating  colony  of 
idle  people,  who  are  seen  at  Paris,  Hom- 
burg,  Rome,  Nice,  etc.,  in  turn. 

But  Estelle  and  Jenny,  heretofore  spoken 
of  as  "  my  darling  little  girls,"  had  perse- 
vered in  a  habit  healthy  girls  have — of  grow- 
ing and  budding  and  putting  out  all  manner 
of  fresh  charms  and  graces,  until  Sister 
Genevieve  had  felt  obliged  to  inform  their 
mother  it  was  time  to  take  them  home  "  for 
good." 

Poor  Mrs.  Platt  was  at  first  really  over- 
whelmed. How  could  her  scant  supply  of 
ready  money  be  made  to  cover  the  expenses 


JENNY,   THE  DEBUTANTE.  163 

of  three  who  must  share  and  share  alike? 
Estelle,  with  her  beautiful  coloring  and 
stylish  figure,  might  indeed  help  to  reflect 
credit  on  the  widow  ;  but  Jenny — Jenny, 
little,  brown,  bright-eyed,  like  a  robin  on 
a  twig — who  could  do  anything  with  such 
as  Jenny? 

As  the  May  days  passed  away,  and  all  of 
Paris — beautiful,  bewildering,  blossoming, 
laughing  Paris  in  spring  garb — poured  out 
upon  the  streets  and  parks  and  drives  and 
boulevards,  Mrs.  Platt  and  Estelle  were  con- 
tinually abroad.  To  provide  both  of  them 
with  the  wonderful  toilets  in.  which  they 
appeared  in  public,  the  little  day-dress- 
maker could  never  have  sewed  fast  enough, 
unless  Jenny's  fingers  had  been  there  to 
help.  Jenny  sewed  long  seams,  hemmed 
ruffles,  tied  bows  and,  when  Estelle  was 
attired  for  conquest,  stood  back  to  ad- 
mire the  lovely  vision  she  had  helped  to 
create.  For  Estelle,  aided  by  her  mother's 


164  JENNY,   THE  DEBUTANTE. 

taste  in  dress,  was  beautiful,  undoubtedly. 
Many  people  of  Mrs.  Platt's  acquaintance, 
who  for  some  time  past  had  taken  little 
notice  of  the  widow,  left  cards  and  re- 
newed their  invitations,  in  consideration  of 
the  new  attraction  the  Rue  Vernet  now 
offered. 

There  was,  however,  one  person  who  had 
never  been  brought  to  recognize  the  social 
claims  of  Mrs.  Platt,  and  that  was  her  country- 
woman, Mrs.  Noble  of  New  York,  who  with 
her  young  family  occupied  the  best  apart- 
ment of  the  house  in  the  Rue  Vernet.  It 
was  too  exasperating,  the  widow  thought, 
to  have  everybody  taking  for  granted  that 
she  knew  her  "  charming  compatriot,  the 
distinguished  Madame  Noble." 

In  spite  of  many  opportunities  of  which 
she  might  well  have  taken  advantage,  Mrs. 
Noble  had  remained  blind  and  deaf  to  the 
existence  of  Mrs.  Platt.  Every  day,  com- 
ing and  going,  it  was  the  widow's  lot  to  see 


JENNY,   Th£  DEBUTANTE.  165 

the  Nobles'  carriage,  drawn  by  those  famous 
American  horses,  standing  in  the  court- 
yard; to  see  Mrs.  Noble  with  her  son  or 
daughter  get  into  it  and  drive  away,  with- 
out a  glance  in  her  direction.  The  wealth, 
the  ease,  the  assured  position  of  the  Nobles, 
were  what  the  foolish  woman  envied  ;  not 
the  good  breeding,  the  family  union,  the 
simplicity  of  dress  and  manner  that  marked 
her  neighbors  au  premier. 

Little  Jenny,  tripping  up  and  down  the 
stairs,  unnoticed,  to  save  Annette's  old 
bones  in  household  errands,  found  her- 
self too,  one  day,  looking  after  the  Nobles' 
carriage  as  it  drove  away  from  the  court- 
yard, with  a  sort  of  yearning  in  her  heart. 
She  had  heard  an  interchange  of  loving 
banter  between  the  mother  and  her  children, 
and  the  contrast  between  that  and  her  own 
domestic  atmosphere  went  through  her  with 
a  pang. 

Early  in  June  came  invitations,  for  which 


166  JENNY,   THE  DEBUTANTE. 

Mrs.  Platt  had  plotted  and  planned  with  per- 
sistence worthy  of  a  better  cause,  to  a  fete 
at  the  hotel  of  one  of  the  ministers  of  gov- 
ernment ;  a  ball,  with  dancing  in  a  tent  to  be 
pitched  in  the  middle  of  an  illuminated  gar- 
den. Monsieur  de  Patras  had  brought  the 
two  rose-colored  tickets  that  were  to  admit 
Estelle  and  her  mamma  into  this  dazzling 
scene. 

New  dresses,  fresh  in  every  particular, 
with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  the  make- 
shift by  which  madame's  old  pink  silk 
might  be  made  to  serve  under  a  new  pink 
gauze  for  mademoiselle,  were  absolutely 
necessary.  The  little  dressmaker,  Jenny, 
madame,  and  Estelle  (who  directed  but  did 
not  sew)  met  together  daily  in  important 
conclave.  The  sitting  room  fairly  over- 
flowed with  flounces  and  furbelows  and  snip- 
pings  of  tulle  and  silk  and  ribbon.  Jenny, 
as  much  excited  as  if  she  herself  were  to  be 
the  happy  wearer  of  the  robe  now  nearly 


JENNY,   THE  DEBUTANTE.  167 

finished,  had  sewed  until  she  began  to  feel 
a  chronic  headache. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  forgot  to  tell  you, 
Estelle,"  said  excited  Mrs.  Platt  on  the 
morning  of  the  fete  ;  "  I  am  told  that  the 
Nobles  will  certainly  be  there,  and  a  friend 
has  promised  to  introduce  us  to  them  with- 
out fail.  Really,  my  dear,  you  are  looking 
pale  to-day.  Come  out  with  me  for  a  walk, 
and  if  I  can  possibly  afford  it  I  will  bargain 
with  the  florist  to  let  you  have  a  bouquet 
for  to-night  that  will  be  worth  the  carrying." 

"  May  I  go  for  a  walk  in  the  Pare  Mon- 
ceaux,  mamma?"  asked  Jenny.  "Marie 
and  I  can't  both  sew  at  once  on  your  skirt, 
and  I  have  been  feeling  rather  dizzy." 

"  Yes,  go,"  answered  the  mother  shortly. 
"The  Pare  Monceaux  is  so  given  up  to  nur- 
sery maids  and  children  you  can  walk  there 
alone.  Besides,  nobody  would  be  likely  to 
notice  you,  I  think !  "  she  ended,  with  a 
little  slighting  laugh. 


168  JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 

Jenny  had  often  before  found  her  solitary 
way  to  the  pretty  little  park  in  the  heart  of 
the  great  bustling  city  near  their  home.  In 
her  plain  frock,  with  her  threadbare  gloves, 
the  girl  could  glide  about  unobserved,  like 
the  modest  little  working  woman  that  she 
was. 

Sometimes  a  child  at  play  would  stop  to 
talk  to  her,  and  dogs  scampering  away  from 
their  owners  would  frisk  and  lick  her  hand 
when  she  accosted  them.  The  birds  knew 
her  and  her  pocket  full  of  crumbs  ;  but  with 
these  exceptions  Jenny  had  for  the  most 
part  only  the  companionship  of  her  cheer- 
ful  thoughts. 

For  I  defy  anyone  who  has  youth  and 
strength  and  the  future  stretching  far  ahead 
to  be  doleful  in  such  an  atmosphere  as  that 
of  an  early  summer's  day  in  Paris.  The 
sparkle  of  sunshine,  the  green  of  grass  and 
trees,  the  play  of  fountains  and  the  brilliant 
show  of  flowers  and,  over  all,  such  a  stir  and 


IE\TNY,  THE  DEBUTANTE.         169 

murmuring  of  re-awakened  nature,  enjoyed 
by  throngs  of  pleasant-spoken  people,  are 
quite  irresistible. 

Jenny  made  no  attempt  to  resist  it.  She 
walked  more  rapidly,  she  hummed,  she 
skipped.  Turning  into  a  shady  avenue  of 
horse-chestnuts,  she  found  herself  alone.  A 
little  Scotch  terrier,  gamboling  without  his 
leash,  ran  with  her.  When  tired  of  racing 
him  she  stopped  by  a  fountain,  and  from 
the  leaves  of  a  broken  bough  of  horse-chest- 
nut made  for  herself  a  cup,  and  stooped  to 
drink. 

"  Here,  Rags  !  here,  Rags  !  "  said  a  pleas- 
ant voice,  calling  the  little  dog.  Jenny 
looked  up,  and  saw  on  a  bench  near  by,  their 
neighbor,  Mrs.  Noble. 

"  Oh  !  Rags  is  such  a  darling  little  fel- 
low," she  exclaimed  ;  "  I  hope  you  do  not 
mind  my  racing  him." 

"  Rags  is  a  wise  little  fellow,"  said  his 
mistress,  smiling.  "  He  knows  how  to 


JENNY,   THE  DEBUTANTE. 


choose  his  comrades  for  a  game.  Of  course 
he  gets  tired  sometimes  of  following  my 
sober  steps,  and  my  own  poor  girl  isn't 
strong  enough  to  run  with  him.  See  here, 
my  child,  I  have  a  fancy  to  taste  water  from 
a  leaf-cup  like  the  one  you  threw  away  ; 
won't  you  make  another  one  for  me?" 

Jenny  made  the  cup,  and  after  drinking, 
Mrs.  Noble  sighed.  "  It  was  on  my  father's 
farm  in  Massachusetts  —  I  don't  like  to 
think  how  many  years  ago  —  that  I  quaffed 
my  last  draught  from  such  a  sylvan  goblet. 
It  was  for  old  associations'  sake  I  asked 
you." 

"  Then  you  can  tell  me  about  Amer- 
ica," cried  Jenny,  kindling.  "  My  father, 
too,  I  think  lived  in  Massachusetts  as  a  boy. 
I  don't  know  anything  about  my  own 
country  except  what  the  geographies  tell 
us  —  and  at  a  French  convent  that's  not 
much." 

Unconsciously  she  had  seated  herself  at 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 


the  other  end  of  Mrs.  Noble's  bench.  She 
took  her  hat  off,  and  the  heat  making 
her  hair  curl  into  rings  of  golden  brown 
around  her  temples,  deepened  the  color  in 
her  cheeks.  Jenny  looked  —  yes,  it  is  actu- 
ally true  —  so  pretty,  that  the  lady  of  the 
fountain  smiled  admiringly.  Mrs.  Noble, 
interested  in  the  subject  as  in  her  listener, 
talked  long  and  pleasantly. 

When,  in  the  course  of  their  conversa- 
tion, she  found  out  that  Jenny  was  the 
child  of  the  Mrs.  Platt  who  lived  au 
cinqutime  in  the  Rue  Vernet,  an  expres- 
sion Jenny  could  hardly  understand  came 
into  her  mild  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  know  your  mother,"  she  said, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  "  But,  my  dear,  if 
you  think  she  will  not  mind,  it  would  give 
me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  take  you  with  us 
this  evening  to  hear  Madame  Galli-Marie' 
sing  the  part  of  Mignon  at  the  Opera- 
Comique." 


I?2  JENNY,   THE  DEBUTANTE. 

"  / — oh  !  "  Jenny  drew  a  long  breath  of 
pleasure.  "  I  have  never  heard  an  opera. 
The  Sisters  took  us  to  a  Mass  at  St.  Eustache 
one  day;  we  heard  the  'Stabat  Mater.' 
Oh  !  how  thrilling  it  all  was.  There  was  a 
man's  voice — he  came  from  the  Pope's  choir, 
they  said  ;  it  was  like  an  angel's  trumpet ! 
Oh!  do  you  believe  mamma  will  let  me?" 
she  concluded,  in  a  burst  of  joyful  inco- 
herence. 

"  I  believe  she  will,"  said  Mrs.  Noble 
smiling. 

It  was  all  astonishing,  Jenny  thought. 
There  were  mamma  and  Estelle  lying  on 
their  beds,  trying  to  get  a  little  sleep,  they 
said,  before  dressing  for  the  ball.  (Mamma 
was  in  a  queer  kind  of  humor,  half  pleased, 
half  snappish!)  There  was  little  Marie,  the 
sewing-girl,  lingering  beyond  her  time  to 
fasten  Jenny's  one  white  frock,  the  muslin 
Sister  Genevieve  had  ordered  for  their 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  173 

school  exhibition  the  year  before.  Marie's 
deft  fingers  tied  her  white  silk  sash  in  a 
truly  Parisian  bow  behind  the  slender  waist, 
and  when  all  was  finished  stood  back  to 
inform  Jenny  that  she  was  vraiment  tres 
bien ;  not  beautiful  like  Mademoiselle 
Estelle,  but  comme  il  faut !  There  was 
Annette,  in  a  red  camisole  and  spotless  cap, 
waiting  to  escort  her  down  the  stairs  and 
deliver  her  up  in  state  to  Mrs.  Noble's 
keeping !  Surely,  it  could  not  be  true. 
Surely,  little  Jenny  must  awake  and  find  it 
but  a  dream. 

Jenny  had  never  seen  anything  like  the 
elegance  and  comfort  of  her  new  friend's 
quarters.  When  the  doors  opened,  and  she 
was  ushered  into  the  large  drawing  room 
filled  with  luxurious  furniture  and  hang- 
ings, with  blooming  plants  everywhere,  and 
softly-shaded  lamps,  with  abundant  books 
and  work-tables,  and  an  open  grand  piano, 
behind  which  sat  a  young  girl  playing  one 


174  JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 

of  Chopin's  waltzes,  she  felt  absolutely  over- 
come with  fear. 

But  there,  in  a  deep  armchair,  holding 
out  her  hand  and  gently  greeting  her  little 
visitor,  was  the  lady  of  the  fountain.  Be- 
hind Mrs.  Noble  stood  her  tall  son,  George, 
and  Helen  came  forward  from  the  piano. 

"See,  children,"  said  Mrs.  Noble,  when 
they  rose  to  go  in  to  dinner  presently, 
"did  I  not  tell  you  truly?  Jenny  has 
just  the  turn  of  the  head,  the  trick  of 
looking  up  when  spoken  to.  I  am  speak- 
ing of  my  married  daughter  in  New  York, 
my  dear;  you  reminded  me  of  Grace  the 
moment  I  laid  eyes  on  you." 

"And  you  must  expect  to  be  spoiled 
outrageously  in  consequence,"  said  Helen. 
"  Mamma  can  never  forgive  my  brother-in- 
law  for  carrying  off  her  eldest." 

The  dinner  was  pleasant,  and  uncon- 
strained beyond  anything  in  Jenny's  previ- 
ous experience.  When  the  carriage  was  an- 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  175 

nounced  to  take  the  ladies  to  the  opera,  Mrs. 
Noble  gave  to  each  of  the  girls  a  bunch  of 
deep-red  roses  and,  drawing  Jenny  aside 
to  her  own  room,  put  something  in  her 
hand. 

"There,  my  dear,  is  a  little  trinket  to 
wear  on  that  velvet  at  your  throat — a  mere 
trifle  of  a  thing,  but  I  found  it  in  my  jewel- 
box,  and  it  will  remind  you  of  our  meeting 
at  the  fountain." 

Eagerly  Jenny  opened  the  little  velvet 
box  to  find  a  pendant  resembling  a  leaf, 
made  of  green  enamel,  on  which  lay  a  pearl 
and  two  tiny  diamonds.  Needless  to  tell  of 
her  rapture  when  Helen  slipped  the  pretty 
ornament — her  very,  very  first ! — upon  the 
velvet  round  her  neck. 

Jenny  went  to  bed  that  night  as  happy 
as  a  queen.  She  was  up  next  morning  and 
about  her  work,  long  before  it  was  time  to 
carry  mamma's  and  Estelle's  chocolate  into 
their  bedrooms.  From  her  sister  she  re- 


176  JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 

ceived  no  greeting,  but  Mrs.  Platt  plied  her 
with  a  hundred  questions. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  that  lady,  when  she  had 
heard  a  full  account  of  Jenny's  evening  of 
pure  bliss.  "A  dinner — the  opera — roses — 
pearls  and  diamonds !  Upon  my  word, 
Miss,  you  are  prettily  set  up.  I  must  say 
it  was  a  thousand  pities  you  got  that  slice  of 
luck,  instead  of  poor  Estelle.  Was  there  ever 
anything  so  provoking  as  my  missing  Mrs. 
Noble's  call,  when  she  came  yesterday  to 
leave  the  note  asking  if  you  might  go  with 
her?  However,  Estelle  and  I  will  make  it 
a  point  to  return  the  visit  this  afternoon. 
Mrs.  Noble  ought  to  see  Estelle." 

"  I  hope  your  ball  was  lovely,"  ventured 
Jenny  in  return. 

"  Well,  the  crowd  was  awful.  I  lost  my 
fan,  and  Estelle's  goxvn  was  torn  nearly  in 
two.  There  was  not  much  chance  for  danc- 
ing, and  we  walked  around  with  that  stupid 
old  Patras  until  our  feet  ached.  I  think  it 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  1 77 

very  strange,  Jenny,  that  the  Nobles  were 
not  there.  I  thought  they  would  be  sure  to 
look  in  after  they  left  you  at  home." 

"  I  heard  Mrs.  Noble  say  that  she  did  not 
approve  of  taking  a  girl  so  young  as  Helen  to 
those  semi-public  balls,  and  that  she  herself 
never  went  into  a  crush,"  said  Jenny  ;  a  re- 
mark that  had  the  immediate  effect  of  mak- 
ing her  mother  scold  her  for  impertinence 
until  the  poor  girl  burst  into  tears,  and 
hurried  from  the  room. 

Spite  of  its  auspicious  beginning,  the  ac- 
quaintance between  the  families  of  Platt 
and  Noble  did  not  appear  to  flourish.  Mrs. 
Noble  was  from  home  when  Mrs.  Platt 
called  on  the  afternoon  following  the  ball. 
Maneuver  as  she  might,  Mrs.  Platt  could 
find  no  way  of  introducing  her  darling  Es- 
telle  to  such  important  notice. 

"  I  have  it,"  said  Mrs.  Platt,  coming  in  to 
her  eldest  daughter's  room;  "  Mrs.  Noble 
has  asked  Jenny  to  meet  her  in  the  park 


I78  JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 

for  a  walk  this  morning.  It  is  easy  enough 
for  me  to  keep  that  tiresome  little  Jenny 
in.  There  is  always  work  enough  for  her 
to  do  at  home.  Do  you  dress  yourself, 
Estelle,  in  that  e'cru  pongee  with  the 
embroidered  parasol  to  match,  and  the 
knots  of  poppy-colored  ribbon.  You  are 
sweet  in  that.  Annette  shall  walk  with 
you,  and  you  can  introduce  yourself  to  Mrs. 
Noble  by  saying  you  came  to  bring  Jenny's 
apologies.  Come,  don't  sulk,  my  darling  ; 
you  know  Mrs.  Noble  can  do  everything 
for  you  if  she  only  takes  the  fancy." 

It  was  with  no  very  good  grace,  however, 
that  Estelle  followed  these  directions.  When 
she  reached  the  park,  she  ordered  Annette 
to  sit  down  upon  a  bench,  which  the  over- 
worked old  woman  was  glad  enough  to  do. 

Strolling  up  and  down  the  avenue  leading 
to  the  fountain,  Estelle's  heart  was  filled 
with  weariness  and  unsatisfied  longing.  She 
resented  her  mother  for  the  schemes  of 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  179 

which  she  was  beginning  to  heartily  tire ; 
she  resented  Jenny's  gleam  of  good  fortune. 
Everything  seemed  jaundiced  in  her  sight. 

No  sign  yet  of  Jenny's  good  Fairy  of  the 
Fountain.  In  her  place,  an  elderly  English 
maid  was  crocheting  on  a  bench,  a  small 
dog  was  careering  wildly  around  the  gravel 
walk.  A  light  puff  of  wind  blew  Estelle's 
parasol  from  her  hand.  The  fall  detached  a 
bow  of  poppy-colored  ribbon  which  blew 
over  upon  the  grass.  In  a  moment  the  little 
dog  was  after  it.  Estelle  called  to  him 
angrily,  but  the  mischievous  little  fellow 
ran  the  faster  with  his  prize.  By  the  time 
she  came  up  with  him,  he  had  chewed  the 
ribbon  into  a  shapeless  mass. 

The  angry  blood  rushed  into  Estelle's 
face.  With  the  stick  of  her  parasol  she  beat 
the  dog  so  fiercely  that  he  screamed  with 
pain.  She  did  not  see  or  care  who  looked 
at  her.  A  moment  later,  a  girl,  whom  she 
did  not  at  first  recognize  as  Helen  Noble, 


l8o  JENNY,   THE  DEBUTANTE. 

had  picked  up  the  terrier  and  clasped  it  to 
her  breast. 

"You  are  a  wicked,  cruel  person!  "  cried 
Helen,  confronting  Estelle  with  a  degree  of 
energy  born  of  her  righteous  indignation. 
"  I  know  you,  and  I  would  not  speak  to  you 
if  it  were  not  for  my  poor  Rags.  I  believe 
you  have  half  killed  him." 

"I  wish  I  had  killed  him,"  returned  Es- 
telle angrily. 

"  Come,  Miss  Noble,  this  is  no  company 
for  you,"  said  the  prim  maid,  who  had 
been  crocheting  on  the  bench.  "  I  wonder 
what  Mrs.  Noble  will  say  when  she  hears 
the  way  her  pet  has  been  a-treated  ?  One 
thing's  certain — she'll  find  out  fine  feathers 
don't  make  fine  birds,  I'm  thinking,"  and 
she  darted  a  resentful  glance  at  Estelle's 
finery. 

Estelle's  cowardly  heart  began  to  beat 
with  quite  a  new  sensation.  How  came  it 
that  she  had  not  know  Helen  Noble?  This 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  181 

was  the  end,  then,  of  all  the  wiles  and 
schemes.  While  trying  to  think  how  she 
could  smooth  the  matter  over,  she  .found 
herself  alone.  The  occasional  outcries  of 
poor  little  wounded  Rags,  as  he  was  borne 
away,  on  the  gravel  at  her  feet  a  crushed 
and  soiled  knot  of  ribbon  on  which  a  toad 
was  sitting,  were  all  that  remained  to  tell 
the  tale  of  her  defeat ! 

By  midsummer,  Paris  was  deserted  by  the 
fashionable  world,  and  Mrs.  Platt,  following 
the  example  of  her  richer  friends,  betook 
herself,  her  older  daughter,  and  several 
trunks  full  of  made-over  furbelows,  to  va- 
rious places  of  resort. 

Jenny  tried  bravely  to  bear  up  against 
the  solitude  of  the  long  hot  days,  but  the 
strain  was  terrible.  Many  a  time  did  her 
thoughts  turn  to  the  alleys  of  the  con- 
vent garden,  and  to  Sister  Genevieve  ;  but 
Paris  lay  between  them  and  she  had  no 


1 82  JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 

money  to  pay  cab-fare,  and  dared  not  go  on 
foot.  Of  the  Nobles,  she  knew  only  that 
they  had  set  out  on  a  long  journey;  to  Nor- 
way, she  had  heard.  Since  the  encounter 
with  Estelle  at  the  fountain,  Mrs.  Platt,  in 
a  fury  at  the  insult,  as  she  chose  to  call  it, 
directed  to  her  child,  had  refused  to  let 
Jenny  accept  any  farther  notice  from  the 
family.  Jenny  never  received  the  kind  note 
written  by  Mrs.  Noble  on  leaving  Paris,  bid- 
ding the  girl  keep  a  brave  heart  and  not 
forget  those,  who  would  one  day  find  her 
out  again.  "  Such  impudence!  "  Mrs.  Platt 
had  remarked,  waylaying  the  billet,  and  tak- 
ing care  that  it  did  not  reach  the  little  girl, 
who  was  at  that  moment  crying  her  eyes  out 
on  her  cot  because  she  believed  her  friends 
had  gone  away  offended  beyond  recall. 

And  at  last,  one  morning,  Annette,  going 
into  Jenny's  bedroom,  found  her  complaining 
of  a  bad  sore  throat,  with  pains  unlike  any 
she  had  known  before  laying  hold  of  all  her 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  183 

limbs.  Annette  had  not  money  wherewith 
to  pay  a  doctor,  and  the  concierge,  sum- 
moned into  council,  procured  a  physician 
from  an  infirmary,  who  straightway  pro- 
nounced the  disease  to  be  diphtheria. 

It  is  an  old  saying  that  Paris  is  a  capital 
place  to  laugh  and  be  merry  in,  but  a  poor 
one  in  which  to  sorrow,  to  suffer,  or  to  die. 
The  concierge,  hearing  the  doctor's  decree, 
consulted  M.  le  Proprie'taire,  who  with  scant 
preparation  (having,  indeed,  but  little  regard 
for  a  family  of  tenants  whose  rent  was  al- 
ready overdue)  bundled  Miss  Jenny  and  her 
belongings  off  to  a  hospital. 

"Sister  Genevieve !  Oh!  let  me  have 
Sister  Genevieve  !  "  repeated  the  girl  inces- 
santly, as  delirium  set  in. 

Jenny  always  said  she  went  to  sleep  in  the 
ward  of  a  common  hospital,  and  woke  up 
in  Paradise.  What  her  eyes  really  opened 
upon,  when  fever  left  them,  was  a  little 


184  JENNY,   THE  DEBUTANTE. 

chamber  with  walls  tinted  a  cool  green,  a 
wide  window  draped  with  dimity,  through 
which  she  could  see  a  mass  of  waving  tree- 
tops  under  a  summer  sky.  Street  sounds, 
mellowed  by  distance,  came  to  her  not  un- 
pleasantly. The  few  articles  of  furniture  in 
the  room  were  exquisitely  clean  and  neat. 
She  saw  a  vase  of  honeysuckle  on  the  dress- 
ing-stand, and  smelt  its  delicious  odor. 
Then  she  closed  her  eyes  again  and  on 
next  awaking,  refreshed,  and  anxious  to 
ask  questions,  there,  at  her  elbow,  with 
a  cup  of  iced  bouillon,  was  dear  Sister 
Genevieve. 

Before  Jenny  had  a  chance  to  express  her 
satisfaction  at  the  sight,  the  door  opened  to 

• 

admit  a  lady  in  wrap  and  bonnet ;  none 
other  than  Mrs.  Noble,  who,  journeying 
back  to  Paris  with  her  son  in  answer  to  a 
call  on  business  from  her  banker,  had 
reached  the  Rue  Vernet  to  hear  from  the 
concierge  of  Jenny's  removal  to  the  hospital. 


JEA'A'Y,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  185 

A  very  ill  person  does  not  trouble  to 
know  where  comforts  come  from.  Jenny 
did  not  hear,  until  nearly  well  again,  how  it 
was  Mrs.  Noble,  who  had  removed  her  to 
a  private  room  of  an  English  hospital  of 
which  she  happened  to  be  lady-patroness  ; 
how  Sister  Genevieve,  summoned  to  take 
the  invalid  in  charge,  had  nursed  her  ten- 
derly through  a  perilous  attack ;  how  Mrs. 
Noble,  refusing  to  leave  Paris  again  until 
Jenny's  convalescence  was  established,  came 
every  day  for  news  of  her. 

Letters  written  to  inform  Mrs.  Platt  of 
these  events  miscarried  and,  no  answer  to 
them  coming,  Mrs.  Noble  took  the  affair 
in  her  own  hands.  The  latter  part  of  a 
summer  opening  so  dismally  for  Jenny  was 
spent  with  her  dearest  friend  in  one  of  the 
loveliest  spots  of  the  High  Pyrenees. 

When  Mrs.  Platt  did  hear  of  these  occur- 
rences, she  was  divided  between  relief  and 
anger.  But  her  marriage  with  M.  de  Patras 


1 86  JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE. 

occurring  just  then,  she  was  inclined  to  be 
forgiving.  This  marriage  secured  a  home 
for  Estelle  and  herself,  but  about  Jenny 
there  was  the  usual  difficulty.  The  Baron, 
who  had  no  great  fortune,  did  not  welcome 
so  large  a  family. 

In  this  emergency,  Jenny  took  heart  to 
confide  to  her  mother  an  offer  George  Noble 
had  made,  to  transfer  the  little  waif  entirely 
into  his  own  keeping,  to  return  with  him  as 
his  wife  to  America,  where  he  was  to  find 
employment  in  the'  management  of  the 
paternal  estates. 

"Jenny!  Why,  Jenny!"  said  the  new 
Mme.  de  Patras,  "it's  hardly  possible  Mrs. 
Noble  should — it's  just  like  a  fairy-tale — but 
if  she  is  willing  to  let  George  marry  you, 
there's  not  a  debutante  in  the  American 
colony  this  year  that's  made  her  market  half 
as  well  as  you.  I  always  thought  you  took 
after  me  rather  than  your  father — he,  poor 
man,  had  no  foresight,  no  management — 


JENNY,    THE  DEBUTANTE.  187 

he  was   exactly  like    Estelle.     Come   here, 
and  kiss  me,  you  dear  little  brown  mouse  ! " 

"  Everything  has  a  moral,  if  you  can  only 
find  it,"  says  the  sprightly  Duchess  in  "  Al- 
ice in  Wonderland";  and  this  is  mine — naif 
and  time-worn,  but  distinctly"  up  to  date": 

"  Kind  words  are  as  precious  as  pearls  and 
diamonds,  and  as  sweet  as  roses.  Cross, 
unkind  words  are  as  bad  as  toads  and 
vipers." 


WIFE'S  LOVE. 


[A   Folk   Tale   told  to  a  party   of   American   tourists   in 
Norway.     Old  Clemens,  the  guide,  speaks.] 

SUCH  a  pretty  girl  was  Aslog,  daughter  of 
a  great  Norwegian  chieftain  of  the  olden 
time.  White  and  soft  was  her  skin  as  the 
swan's-down  of  her  Sunday  cap  and  mantle. 
Red  roses  bloomed  in  her  cheeks,  a  kind 
smile  hovered  around  her  little  mouth,  and 
her  blue  eyes  looked  frank  and  fearless  upon 
the  world  about  her.  Lonely  enough  was 
Aslog's  bit  of  this  big  world,  and  at  times  a 
chill,  drear  spot  ;  but  at  times  again  full  of 
radiant  color,  and  of  the  chatter  of  nesting 
ducks  and  the  dash  of  waterfalls.  Her 
father's  house  was  like  the  eyrie  of  a  wild 

bird,  built    in    the  cleft   of  frowning  rocks 

789 


19°  WIFE'S  LOVE. 

above  the  rude  North  Sea.  Happy?  Aye, 
that  was  she  ;  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long  in 
Norway,  until  she  fell  in  love  with  Orm,  one 
of  the  young  fellows  employed  by  the  chief, 
her  father,  to  guard  his  herds,  to  hunt  and 
fish  for  himr  and  to  fight  his  battles  whenever 
called  upon.  How  this  falling  in  love  came 
about  I  know  not.  Who  knows  why  the 
wind  blows,  why  birds  seek  their  mates, 
why  the  snowdrop  bursts  its  sheath  and 
blooms  into  a  flower?  Aslog  saw  Orm,  and 
her  heart  went  into  his  keeping  forever- 
more.  As  for  Orm,  he  would  have  died  to 
save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch  ;  at 
least  he  said  so,  and  lovers  always  tell  the 
truth. 

When  Orm  asked  Aslog's  father  for  her 
hand  there  was  a  dreadful  scene.  The  old 
man  stormed  at  the  young  people,  shut  As- 
log up  in  her  bower,  drove  Orm  off  the 
premises  in  short  order.  Didn't  Orm  know, 
didn't  everybody  know  that  the  Lady  As' 


WIFE'S  LOVE. 


log  was  soon  to  marry  her  cousin,  the  great 
sea-captain,  who  was  just  then  coming  home 
from  a  cruise  in  which  he  had  burnt  and  de- 
spoiled the  ships  of  many  enemies?  Not 
until  grass  grew  down  and  streams  ran  back- 
ward should  this  fitting  match  be  broken  ! 
No  !  There  was  an  end  of  it ! 

Alsog,  through  her  tears,  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  tall  young  lover  standing  pale  but 
resolute  before  the  angry  chief.  As  her 
maidens  hustled  her  away,  she  managed  to 
give  Orm  one  sweet  look  that  warmed  his 
heart. 

A  month  later,  the  wedding  of  Aslog 
and  her  cousin  was  announced  to  take  place 
upon  the  morrow.  That  night,  through 
wind  and  storm,  the  lovers  fled  to  the  dwell- 
ing of  the  old  priest  who  had  baptized  the 
girl,  and  who  could  refuse  her  nothing.  He 
warmed  them,  gave  them  wine  and  food, 
and  in  the  presence  of  his  ancient  serving 


192  WIFE'S  LOVE. 

maid   and  man   made   them    husband    and 
wife. 

"  Not  for  your  sake  only,  my  nestling," 
the  old  priest  said,  "but  for  your  mother's, 
who,  in  dying,  asked  me  to  save  you  from  a 
fate  like  hers — a  marriage  without  love. 
Orm  have  I  known  from  boyhood  ;  he  is 
brave  and  true,  and  worthy  even  of  you.  Go 
now,  and  may  Heaven  keep  you  from  all 
harm." 

That  was  a  wedding  journey  !  Orm  had 
but  one  present  for  his  bride,  a  cloak  of  seal- 
skin, trophy  of  his  hunts.  The  wedding 
ring  was  a  beauty,  of  beaten  gold,  like  ser- 
pents twisted  with  jewels  for  their  scales  ! 
The  young  couple  had  to  climb  in  the  dark- 
ness up  a  steep,  rocky  pathway,  where  a 
goat  would  have  hard  work  to  keep  his 
footing,  let  alone  a  Christian.  Orm  knew 
the  track,  since  he  was  the  boldest  hunter 
in  the  old  chief's  band ;  and  when  Aslog 


WIFE'S  LOVE.  193 


trembled  overmuch  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  strode  along  the  verge  of  the 
precipice,  and  laughed  and  talked  to  cheer 
her. 

Ere  long  they  reached  the  home  he  had 
secretly  made  ready  for  her — a  deep,  dry 
cavern,  all  glittering  inside,  with  chairs  and 
couches  spread  with  skins  and  birds'  plum- 
age. There  were  bowls  and  cups  beautifully 
shaped  from  wood  ;  for  Orm  was  a  rare 
hand  to  carve.  There  was  a  cask  of  mead; 
there  were  strings  of  dried  fish,  and  game 
and  eggs  in  plenty.  Oh,  no  fear  of  starv- 
ing, or  of  freezing  either;  and  as  the  fire 
they  kindled  sent  up  its  blue  smoke  into 
the  cavern's  chimney,  Aslog's  pale  cheeks 
reddened  with  returning  warmth. 

"  To  think  you  had  to  carry  all  this 
up  that  terrible  pathway,  Orm !  "  she  said, 
exulting  in  his  strength  and  daring.  And 
Orm  said  the  last  load  he  had  carried  was 
the  lightest. 


194  WIFE'S  LOVE. 


For  some  time  the  runaways  kept  close 
watch  on  the  valley  below;  but,  although 
they  could  plainly  see  the  search  parties  sent 
out  for  them,  nobody  found  out  their 
retreat ;  and  so  the  winter  wore  away.  Orm 
hunted,  \vhileAslog  kept  up  the  fire,  cooked, 
broidered  a  little  (for  she  had  brought  a 
needle  and  some  stuffs),  and  tried  not  to 
feel  lonely  when  her  man  was  away  from  her 
side.  But  it  wouldn't  have  been  natural  for 
the  poor  child  to  forget  her  home.  She 
used  to  picture  the  great  hall,  the  fire  snap- 
ping, the  maidens  spinning,  the  songs  sung 
by  her  father's  minstrels,  the  music  made 
upon  golden  harps. 

But  this  was  only  when  Orm  was  belated. 
When  he  came  in,  strong  and  loving,  noth- 
ing seemed  to  make  much  difference  to 
Aslog.  One  day  he  brought  with  him  a 
broken-winged  eaglet  for  her  to  tame;  and 
after  that  Aslog  had  company  while  he  was 
gone. 


WIFE'S  LOVE.  195 


Spring  came.  The  huge  waterfall,  dash- 
ing down  the  heights  hard  by,  softened  its 
roar,  the  ice  melted,  the  valley  put  on  its 
green. 

"  Now  I  have  nothing  more  to  ask,"  cried 
the  happy  Aslog ;  but  one  day  Orm  ran  in 
breathless,  to  say  that  he  had  seen  her 
cousin,  the  sea-captain,  with  a  -band  of  fol- 
lowers, spying  out  the  path  by  which  the 
lovers  had  escaped. 

"  Now  must  we  fly,  my  darling,"  he 
added ;  "  for  I  ventured  near  enough  to 
hear  them  talking,  and  to-morrow  they  are 
determined  to  find  a  way  to  us.  It  is  the 
fault  of  the  bow  which  I  let  fall  over  the 
cliff,  last  week,  which  they  found  and  knew 
to  be  mine." 

That  evening  the  lovers  crept  down  to 
the  shore,  where  Orm  had  hidden  a  boat  in 
case  of  an  alarm.  They  set  sail  upon  a  dark 
and  stormy  sea,  and  for  three  days  the  tem- 
pest raged,  blinding  Orm,  till  he  knew  not 


I96  WIFE'S  LOVE 


his  right  hand  from  the  left.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  they  were  nearing  shore,  but  that 
a  mighty  blast  of  wind  was  blowing  them 
back  from  it.  At  last  his  strong  arm  grew 
weak,  and  he  could  no  longer  grasp  the  rud- 
der. Aslog,  seeing  their  peril,  uttered  a 
fervent  prayer.  At  once  the  wind  ceased, 
and  the  boat  drifted  quietly  into  a  little 
bay,  where  green  grass  grew  close  to  a  beach 
of  sparkling  sand.  Astonished  and  de- 
lighted, Orm  anchored  the  boat.  He 
looked  about  him  and  saw  that  they  had 
reached  an  island,  apparently  deserted. 

Two  odd  things  they  beheld  not  far 
ahead  of  them.  One  was  a  huge  Stone  Man 
sitting,  like  a  monument.  The  other  a 
cone-shaped  hill  of  grass  soft  as  green 
velvet,  with  smoke  issuing  from  a  chim- 
ney at  the  top,  and  at  a  closed  door,  to 
which  led  up  a  path  of  glittering  pink 
shells. 

Shipwrecked  people  are  not  easily  scared 


LOVE.  19? 


by  what  they  first  see  on  terra  firma,  and  the 
husband  and  wife  took  heart  to  pass  by  the 
Stone  Man,  follow  up  the  shell  walk  and 
knock  at  the  hill  door.  No  answer  ;  but  the 
door  slowly  swung  open,  and  there,  within, 
they  espied  a  dainty,  shining  hall,  contain- 
ing, at  one  end,  a  single  large  armchair,  or 
throne,  and,  all  about  it,  little  stools  and 
easy-chairs  of  silver,  with  not  a  soul  to  sit  in 
them  !  The  rest  of  the  Hill  House  was  in 
order  for  housekeeping  —  fires  burning,  white 
beds  spread,  a  pot  bubbling  on  the  hearth, 
delicious  smells  coming  out  of  it.  Tables, 
cupboards  with  silver  plates  and  spoons, 
chairs,  everything  !  Even  a  flagon  of  wine, 
with  beakers,  on  the  shelf. 

Starving  and  athirst,  they  could  not  wait 
the  return  of  the  owner  of  this  delightful 
spot.  Orm  gave  food  to  his  wife,  then  a 
draught  of  wine,  after  which  he,  too,  ate  and 
drank.  At  once,  a  deep  sleep  fell  upon  the 
two,  and  they  felt  invisible  hands  bearing 


WIFE'S  LOVE. 


them    and  laying  them  on    beds   of    eider 
down. 

How  long  they  slept  they  knew  not.  On 
awaking,  they  found  a  tall,  stately  woman 
sitting  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire.  As  she 
arose,  her  great  height  and  noble  bearing 
convinced  the  pair  that  they  were  in  the 
presence  of  a  giantess,  a  race  then  almost 
vanished  out  of  Norway. 

"  Fear  not,"  she  said  kindly.  "  I  am  the 
Giantess  Gurn,  and  this  is  a  country  place 
of  mine,  where  I  sometimes  come  to  pass  a 
week  or  two.  Our  race  is  at  enmity  with 
yours,  and  so  when  I  saw  your  boat  ap- 
proaching my  island,  I  amused  myself  by 
standing  on  the  cliff,  and  blowing  you  out 
with  my  breath  to  sea  again.  But  the 
prayer  you  uttered  conquered  me,  and  thus 
you  drifted  in  unharmed.  When  I  saw  that 
you  were  a  young  wife  and  husband,  so 
loving  and  so  tender,  my  heart  melted,  and  I 
let  you  have  the  food  and  rest  you  needed." 


WIFE'S  LOVE.  199 


Orm  and  his  Aslog  kissed  the  hands  of  the 
gentle  giantess  in  silence,  offering  to  take 
their  leave.  But  the  Lady  of  the  Hill  bade 
them  tarry  ;  and  when  next  she  spoke  tears 
came  in  her  eyes. 

"  Never  shall  it  be  said  that  I  failed  to  be- 
friend two  loving  hearts  that  beat  as  one," 
she  said.  "  Look  out  of  the  door  and  see 
yonder  stone  image  sitting  there,  and  know 
that  it  is  none  other  than  my  husband, 
whom  I  cherished  tenderly.  Condemned  to 
remain  in  that  shape  by  the  magic  of  an 
enemy  more  powerful  than  we,  once  a  year 
I  have  power  to  bring  my  dear  lord  to  life 
again  by  sacrificing  a  hundred  years  of  my 
own  existence.  Gladly,  gladly  are  they 
given  ;  for  what  is  life  to  me  without  him  ? 
Soon  my  span  will  be  over,  and  I  shall  go  to 
take  my  place  beside  him.  Answer  me  not, 
for  mortals  may  not  hold  familiar  converse 
with  giants  of  a  grand  old  race  like  ours  ; 
but  heed.  Your  story  I  have  ascertained, 


200  WIFE'S  LOVE. 

and  I  feel  for  you.  Homeless  outcasts  as 
you  are,  this  house  may  shelter  you  until  I 
come  again  next  Yule,  and  longer  if  you 
obey  my  orders.  On  Christmas  Eve  you 
must  go  up  into  the  loft  and  remain  there 
in  hiding  until  dawn,  when  we  depart. 
Strange  ceremonies  do  we  hold  then,  when 
our  subjects  pay  their  homage  to  my  lord 
and  me.  Should  mortal  eye  behold  us  at 
our  revels,  and  it  were  known  that  I  per- 
mitted this  breach  of  our  laws,  you  and 
yours  would  be  punished  cruelly,  while  I 
would  lose  another  hundred  years  of  my 
existence  upon  earth." 

Orm  and  Aslog  strove  to  speak,  but  their 
tongues  clove  to  the  roofs  of  their  mouths, 
as  if  in  some  weird  dream.  They  could 
only  kneel  and  thank  their  benefactress  in 
dumb  show.  Then,  to  their  astonishment, 
they  saw  the  lady,  grown  taller  and  more 
majestic,  go  down  the  path  to  the  water, 
stoop  and  kiss  the  Stone  Man  as  she  passed, 


WIFE'S  LOVE.  201 


and,  wading  deliberately  out  into  the  sea. 
vanish  from  their  sight  beneath  the  foam 
crest  of  a  mighty  wave. 

Affairs  prospered  with  Orm  and  Aslog 
after  the  strange  interview,  and  shortly  be- 
fore Christmas  they  had  a  son,  so  strong  and 
beautiful  no  baby  ever  equaled  him.  As 
Christmas  approached,  Aslog  made  ready 
the  Hill  House  for  the  festival,  dusting  and 
scrubbing  until  no  speck  was  left.  On  the 
appointed  night  they  took  the  baby  and 
climbed  up  into  the  loft.  The  sea  roared, 
the  wind  howled,  there  was  a  strange  tremor 
in  the  air.  From  the  chinks  of  the  roof, 
they  could  see  the  wide  expanse  of  water 
around  their  rock-bound  home  wrinkled 
with  seething  waves,  over  which  danced, 
dipped,  and  courtesied  lights,  red,  blue,  vio- 
let, and  orange,  drawing  ever  nearer  to 
the  island.  After  these  lights  came  to- 
gether and  formed  in  a  long  procession  to 
march  up  to  the  house,  they  gathered 


202  WIFE'S  LOVE. 

around  the  figure  of  the  Stone  Man,  and 
stood  still.  Then  was  heard  the  sound  as 
of  the  swoop  of  mighty  swan's  wings 
through  the  air.  A  mighty,  mysterious 
shape,  clad  in  luminous  white,  descended 
upon  the  Island,  and  cast  a  cloud  of  silver 
brightness  around  the  Stone  Man.  Shouts 
arose,  hoarse  and  shrill,  as  if  from  numbers 
of  dwarf  throats.  Aslog,  frightened  out 
of  her  wits,  threw  her  arms  around  Orm's 
neck  and  clung  to  him  in  silence.  The 
baby,  sucking  his  thumb,  slept  unconscious 
of  the  turmoil. 

And  now  the  procession  of  light-bearers 
drew  near  the  house,  the  Stone  Man  walking 
with  a  tread  that  shook  the  earth,  beside 
Gurn,  who  wore  a  gown  like  hoarfrost,  with 
a  crown  of  sparkling  diamonds.  The 
torches,  borne  by  hundreds  of  little  elves, 
made  the  scene  as  distinct  as  if  it  were 
broad  day ;  but  when  once  the  revelers 
had  crossed  the  Hill  House  threshold 


WIFE'S  LOVE.  203 


Orm  and  Aslog  dared  no  longer  look  at 
them,  even  though  a  crevice  in  the  loft  floor 
presented  itself  provokingly  close  to  Aslog's 
very  feet. 

Laughter,  talk,  odors  of  delicious  food 
and  drink  floated  up  to  the  married  pair, 
who  still  stood  motionless,  wreathed  in  each 
other's  arms.  Then,  alas  !  began  the  tun- 
ing of  tiny  harps  and  fiddles,  at  the  first 
sounds  of  which  the  mortals  started,  as  if 
at  an  electric  shock. 

"  I  did  not  bargain  for  elf-music,"  Orm 
said,  palpitating,  his  breath  beginning  to 
come  quicker. 

"Oh!  husband,  husband!"  cried  Aslog, 
panting,  as  the  first  silver  strain  rang  out. 
Music  that  sent  sweet  madness  coursing 
like  quicksilver  in  the  listeners'  blood. 
Music  that  wooed  sea-monsters  from  the 
deep,  sea-birds  from  the  air,  to  gather  by 
hundreds  round  the  island.  What  mere 
mortal  could  withstand  it  ? 


204  WIFE'S  LOVE. 

"  Heaven  send  they  play  not  the  Elf- 
King's  Merry  Round,"  cried  the  terrified 
Orm,  seeing  that  his  full  strength  could 
with  difficulty  restrain  the  struggles  of  his 
wife ;  "  for  when  that's  played,  all  who  hear 
must  dance  to  it  or  die." 

With  reeling  brain,  with  twitching  hands 
and  feet,  Aslog  listened  ;  and  when  sud- 
denly the  measure  changed  to  one  of 
quicker  time,  dangerously  sweet,  like  tink- 
ling flower  bells  mixed  with  shattered  bird 
notes,  she  gave  one  great,  convulsive  gasp, 
and,  wrenching  herself  from  her  husband's 
arms,  darted  down  the  ladder,  and  danced 
into  the  middle  of  the  room  below. 

Orm  heard  an  exclamation  of  dismay  in 
gentle  Gurn's  voice,  then  a  mad  hurly-burly 
of  groans  and  cries  of  rage  from  the  insulted 
dwarfs. 

"  Save  her !  Save  my  Aslog  !  "  he  cried 
aloud,  his  feet  twitching  and  stumbling  as 
he  stooped  over  to  reach  his  baby  in  the 


WIFE'S  LOVE.  205 


cradle.  Before  he  could  lift  the  child  into 
the  protection  of  his  arms,  the  little  dis- 
turbed creatures  below  ran  with  the  speed  of 
light  up  the  ladder,  snatched  the  baby  and 
made  off  with  it.  Blinded  and  despairing, 
Orm  staggered  after  them  and  stood  in 
the  hall  below.  All  was  confusion.  The 
torches,  swirling  together  like  the  figures  in 
a  kaleidoscope,  were  suddenly  put  out,  and 
in  the  darkness  he  felt  himself  pinched  and 
tugged  and  beaten  by  invisible  hands. 

"Aslog,  my  own,"  he  cried  out  with  one 
last  effort,  and  fell,  stunned  and  motionless, 
upon  the  floor. 

When  consciousness  returned,  he  lay  alone 
on  the  cold  hearth.  Instantly  Orm  remem- 
bered what  had  befallen  him.  Half  crazed, 
he  dashed  out  into  the  night,  calling  aloud 
for  Aslog  and  his  baby.  No  answer  but  the 
dash  of  angry  waves  upon  the  cliff.  As  oi 
old,  the  Stone  Man  sat  dumb  and  unsym- 
pathizing  on  his  pedestal. 


206  WIFE'S  LOVE. 


Orm  went  back,  chilled  and  heart  sore,  to 
his  forsaken  dwelling.  It  was  cold  comfort 
to  him  to  find  the  floor  strewn  with  fairy 
relics.  There  were  little  glass  slippers,  with 
shoe-strings  of  red  ribbon,  harps,  fiddles, 
dulcimers,  plates,  goblets,  flagons  of  pure 
gold  and  silver,  hammered  by  elf-hands  un- 
derground, and  set  with  rarest  gems.  There 
was  Gurn's  mantle  fallen  across  her  chair,  a 
woven  of  eider-down  tissue,  and  broidered 
thick  with  silver  threads.  To  possess  all — 
nay  half  of  these — meant  riches  to  a 
mortal ;  but  what  use  was  wealth  to  a  man 
who  had  lost  Aslog  and  her  baby? 

Time  went  on.  Orm  had  endured  life  he 
knew  not  how.  At  Easter-tide,  he  was  again 
sitting  sadly  in  the  room.  He  had  come 
home  from  fishing,  and,  on  the  way,  had 
plucked  a  bunch  of  early  blue  harebells 
growing  in  a  cleft  of  the  rocks.  "  How  As- 
log would  have  welcomed  them,"  he  said, 
and  with  the  words  a  pang  came  that  made 


WIFE'S  LOVE.  207 


him  cast  the  tiny  things  despairingly  away. 
At  that  moment  the  noise  of  great  wings 
was  heard,  and  a  shadow  fell  across  the 
doorway.  It  was  none  other  than  Gurn, 
pale,  unsmiling,  and  weaker  than  of  old,  who 
alighted  at  his  side. 

"  No  grudge  do  I  bear  you,.mortal,"  she 
said,  in  solemn  tones.  "  Your  punishment 
has  been  great ;  and  before  I  go  hence  to 
join  my  dear  one  in  his  eternal  sleep  of 
stone,  where  to-morrow's  rise  of  sun  shall 
find  me,  I  have  asked  a  last  favor  of  the 
dwarfs,  and  they  have  granted  it.  At  Easter 
dawn  your  darlings  shall  be  restored  to  you. 
Farewell,  remember  Gurn  !  " 

Orm's  heart  gave  a  mighty  bound  ;  he  be- 
lieved that  it  broke  then  and  there  with  joy. 
All  grew  dark  before  him.  Trying  to  kiss 
the  hem  of  his  benefactor's  garment  he  fell 
forward  on  his  face. 

Here,  in  the  earliest  rays  of  Easter  sun- 
light, Aslog  and  her  baby  came  to  him.  At 


208  WIFE'S  LOVE. 


the  first  touch  of  his  wife's  hand  Orm  stirred 
from  his  trance,  and  opened  his  eyes  upon 
her  rosy  face.  Never  had  it  seemed  to  him 
so  fair. 

What  most  astonished  Orm,  however,  was 
that,  after  greeting  him  tenderly,  Aslog  set 
about  her  household  tasks  as  if  she  had 
never  been  away.  Where  she  had  been, 
how  she  came  back,  she  could  not  say.  We 
who  know  the  old  trick  of  fairy  kidnappers, 
how  they  always  rob  their  captives  of. 
memory  before  restoring  them  to  earth,  are 
not  so  much  inclined  to  wonder  as  was  our 
simple  Orm. 

Presently  the  husband  and  wife  left  their 
baby  in  the  cradle  and  wandered  out  into 
the  gladness  of  the  newborn  day.  Oh,  sad 
and  strange  sight !  There,  beside  the  Stone 
Man,  her  calm  lips  smiling  peacefully,  her 
sightless  eyes  opened  full  upon  the  rising 
sun,  sat  the  Gentle  Giantess,  turned,  like  her 
mate,  to  stone. 


WIFE'S  LOVE.  209 


Aslog  plucked  flowers  and  laid  them  in 
her  lap.  Orm  vowed  that  he  would  build 
around  the  faithful  pair  a  wall  so  broad  and 
strong  that  it  should  stand  for  ages. 

In  the  course  of  time  a  ship,  coming  to 
anchor  in  the  bay  of  Orm's  Island,  found 
Aslog  and  her  husband  living  in  peace  and 
happiness.  They  took  this  occasion,  how- 
ever, to  journey  back  to  their  former  home, 
where,  by  the  sale  of  some  of  his  fairy  sil- 
verware and  trinkets,  Orm  found  himself  a 
rich  man,  able  to  beg  forgiveness  from  the 
father  of  his  wife. 

The  old  chief,  they  say,  warmly  urged 
the  young  people  to  remain  with  him.  But 
the  Hill  House  was  their  favorite  dwelling- 
place,  and  there  they  spent  their  lives. 

Orm's  children  moved  away  from  the 
island,  as  years  went  on  ;  but  if  you  go  to 
visit  the  spot  to-day  you  will  certainly  find 
there  the  figures  of  the  Stone  Man  and  his 
Gentle  Giantess. 


A  HARP  UNSTRUNG, 


ONE  evening  in  March,  George  Talbot 
had  gathered  in  his  comfortable  old-time 
dining  room  a  merry  company.  An  invita- 
tion to  one  of  his  well-appointed  bachelor 
dinners  was  considered  by  aspirants  to  social 
place  in  New  York  a  brevet  of  fashion.  On 
this  occasion  the  party  was  chaperoned  by 
Mrs.  Malbone — large,  bland,  platitudinous 
— wearing  the  famous  Malbone  necklace 
under  her  triple  chin.  It  included  the  more 
promising  elements  of  the  latest  bride,  two 
of  the  newest  beauties,  a  clever  widow, 
little  Mrs.  Bob  Stryker,  from  Baltimore — 
who  makes  every  party  go — an  English  earl, 
in  search  of  an  American  "  Motor,"  Regy 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 


Glenham,  Langford,  of  the  Age,  Mrs.  Bob's 
husband,  et  a/.,  as  the  lawyers  say. 

Talbot  himself,  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  on 
which  the  silver  candlesticks  and  India  china, 
cut-glass  and  thick  white  damask  bespoke 
the  fittings  of  a  generation  past,  was  by  all 
odds  the  most  distinguished  figure  of  the 
circle.  The  slim  little  earl,  with  his  patches 
of  whitish  whisker  on  a  pair  of  continually 
blushing  cheeks,  made  a  poor  show  of  weight 
and  girth  and  muscle  beside  his  stately 
host.  Talbot  resembled  the  oak  of  the 
Western  forest  rather  than  the  iron-bound 
elm  that  has  sprung  between  city  paving- 
stones.  And  yet,  save  for  his  campaigns  in 
the  war  between  the  States  and  the  easy 
journeys  here  and  there  around  the  world 
of  an  untrammeled  man  of  means,  his  life 
had  been  spent  in  New  York;  most  of  it 
in  the  same  house,  whither  his  mother  had 
come  as  a  bride,  now  five-and-forty  years 
ago. 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG.  213 

There  had  been  no  Mrs.  Talbot  to  succeed 
that  worthy  lady.  Worse  luck,  thought 
some  of  the  marriageable  maidens,  in  whose 
eyes  the  quiet  dwelling  in  the  conservative 
quarter  of  the  eastern  part  of  the  town — the 
broad,  red-brick,  "  English-basement"  house 
with  its  old  furniture,  old  books  and  pictures, 
customs  and  servants,  and  the  not  partic- 
ularly young  master  had  an  attraction  hard 
to  rival. 

For  it,  and  for  him,  did  they  and  their 
mammas  cheerfully  forsake  the  brown-stone 
haunts  of  the  elect  uptown,  where  night 
by  night  are  spread  banquets  of  Lucullus, 
each  so  patterned  after  the  other  that  the 
givers  of  the  feasts  alone  accentuate  the 
difference  between  them. 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  lively  Mrs.  Bob  to 
her  neighbor,  Regy  Glenharri,  as  she  leaned 
across  him  to  help  herself  to  salted  almonds, 
"  you  New  York  people  are  getting  tired  of 
your  everlasting  straining  after  style.  You 


214  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

aren't  quite  certain  what  style,  don't  you 
know?  If  there  were  only  a  fixed  law,  it 
would  be  such  a  comfort.  I  dined  last  night 
at  the  Slowmores'  ;  the  night  before  at 
the  Van  Sluypperkins'.  The  Slowmores' 
chef  got  up  their  dinner.  Of  course  it 
was  gorgeous,  \>\\\.  heavy  !  '  Well,'  I  remem- 
ber thinking,  in  the  middle  of  the  fish, 
'  is  it  possible  my  immortal  part  is  given  me 
for  such  as  this?  '  But  the  funny  thing  was 
that  the  Van  Sluypperkins  had  had  the 
same  11161111,  the  same  flowers,  the  same 
wines.  Everybody  knows  the  Slowmores' 
income  is  fabulous.  Why  should  the  Van 
Sluypperkins  try  to  live  up  to  them, 
struggling  with  strange  hirelings  in  the 
kitchen  and  dining  room,  who  report  the 
affair  to  the  society  column  of  the  next 
day's  newspaper,  with  their  chef's  name 
appended  as  having  served  the  dinner?" 
"Why,  indeed?"  languidly  responded 
Glenham,  who  liked  little  Mrs.  Bob  because 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG.  215 

she  never  bothered  him  to  talk.  Mrs.  Bob 
sipped,  like  the  birdling  that  she  is,  at  the 
champagne-and-water  in  her  tazza  and  re- 
sumed. 

"  What  I  was  going  to  say  is,  that  Talbot's 
old-fashioned  ways  (where  else  does  one  see 
such  a  grizzled  negro  butler  take  off  the  cloth 
and  fetch  fresh  glasses  for  the  after-dinner 
wines  ?)  convey  to  the  minds  of  some  of  his 
guests  a  distinct  assurance  that  he  repre- 
sents the  class  of  old  New  Yorkers  who  can 
afford  to  be  eccentric.  The  new  people 
don't  really  admire  it.  They  wouldn't  at- 
tempt it  in  their  own  homes  for  a  kingdom. 
They  don't  appreciate  the  ease,  the  mellow 
charm  of  Talbot's  atmosphere." 

"  By  Jove,  they  must  appreciate  his 
port,"  said  Glenham,  surveying  the  topaz 
sparkle  of  the  liquid  in  his  glass,  with  cor- 
dial approbation.  "There's  color  for  you, 
Mrs.  Stryker  !  It  is  like  my  collie's  eyes. 
No;  it  is  like  the  eyes  of  the  young  lady 


2l6  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

who  sits  near  Talbot,  with  the  bunch  of  yel- 
low roses  in  her  yellow  gown.  I  dare  not 
mention  names,  for  I  see  she  thinks  we  are 
discussing  her." 

"  That  girl !  "  said  Mrs.  Bob,  with  fearless 
unconcern.  "  She  may  have  great,  big,  lan- 
guishing, yellow  eyes,  but  I  can't  endure 
her.  For  a  debby  who  came  out  only  last 
November,  Maud  Grafton  is  the  most  self- 
possessed  and  determined  young  person  of 
my  acquaintance.  Mark  my  words,  Mr. 
Glenham,  if  Mr.  Talbot  sees  much  more  of 
her,  he's  gone." 

"  Suppose  I  take  him  somewhere  for  a 
cruise,"  said  Glenham,  looking  a  little 
alarmed,  for  Talbot  was  the  one  chosen 
of  his  soul  among  all  other  men  to  be  his 
comrade. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time  the  experi- 
ment was  tried,"  said  Mrs.  Bob  mischiev- 
ously. She  remembered  the  occasion,  two 
years  back,  when  Glenham  had  fairly  turned 


A    HARP  UNSTRUNG.  217 

tail  and  sailed  around  the  globe,  to  avoid 
a  dangerous  crisis  of  the  kind.  "  Well,  I 
advise  prompt  action.  He  may  have  no 
idea  that  he's  in  danger.  For  a  man  of  the 
world,  our  friend  has  a  most  unworldly  soul  ; 
and  it's  no  business  of  mine.  Life  is  too 
complicated,  as  we  live,  to  go  to  mixing  in 
other  people's  love  affairs.  But  not  only  is 
that  girl  what,  in  Baltimore,  we'd  call  an 
outrageous  flirt,  but  she's  cold  as  a  stone 
inside — calculating,  and  quietly  determined 
to  improve  her  condition  by  getting  out  of 
her  family  groove  before  another  season's 
over.  Yes,  she  knows  we  are  talking  about 
her,  but  I  don't  care  a  snap.  She  poses  to 
Talbot  as  an  adorer  of  the  silent,  speech- 
less type.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Glenham,  you 
know  everything;  why  did  Talbot  never 
marry  ?" 

"  Good  Heavens  !  my  dear  madam,  you 
are  like  an  electric  shock  !  "  exclaimed  Glen- 
ham.  At  this  moment  there  was  an  inter- 


2l8  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

ruption.  Talbot  had  just  leaned  forward  to 
take  a  glass  of  wine  with  Mrs.  Malbone,  pre- 
paratory to  the  general  reaching  down  after 
dropped  gloves  and  fans  that  heralds 
feminine  departure  from  the  table.  A  lull 
followed  the  merry  chatter  of  the  group. 
The  large  room  was  brimming  with  im- 
prisoned warmth  and  light  and  comfort. 
On  the  rich  crimson  of  the  plush  hangings 
the  high  lights  glanced  like  the  glow  from 
rubies.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of 
lilacs  and  roses,  heaped,  in  massive  wine- 
coolers  of  beaten  silver,  upon  the  shining 
board.  In  the  half-silence  thus  falling  on 
the  company  they  heard  the  burst  of  a 
wintry  storm  upon  the  windows,  and  above 
its  bluster,  hoarsely  tremulous  but  distinct,  a 
woman's  voice  was  singing  in  the  street : 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 
The  harp  of  Tara  swells. 

"Goodness,    what  a    gruesome    sound!" 
said   little   Mrs.  Bob,   shivering.      She   saw 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG.  219 

Glenham  glance  at  Talbot,  and  her  eyes  fol- 
lowed his.  Their  host  had  certainly  grown 
paler,  the  glass  trembled  in  his  hand.  With 
a  sign  he  summoned  the  butler,  who  imme- 
diately left  the  room. 

"  Mr.  Talbot  is  ill,  I  fear,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Malbone's  neighbor  in  her  ear,  and  that  lady, 
slowly  taking  the  hint,  arose,  and  gathering 
dames  and  damsels  in  her  wake,  departed 
up  the  stairs.  From  the  servants,  who  fol- 
lowed them  with  coffee,  the  ladies  reassured 
themselves  as  to  Talbot's  health,  Maud 
Grafton,  in  particular,  with  a  somewhat  pro- 
prietary air,  taking  the  lead  in  inquiry.  As- 
certaining that  their  host  was  much  as 
usual,  Mrs.  Malbone  subsided  into  a  broad 
armchair  with  her  satellite,  Mrs.  Carver, 
at  her  elbow;  and  Mrs.  Bob,  after  toasting 
herself  thoroughly  before  a  huge  wood 
fire,  picked  out  a  corner  of  a  sofa,  where, 
with  cushions  all  about  her,  she  soon 
became  the  center  of  a  group  of  women 


220  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

who  one  and  all  voted  her  "  a  perfect 
dear,  too  sweet  for  anything,"  the  acme 
of  feminine  eulogium. 

All,  indeed,  but  Maud  Grafton.  This 
young  woman,  who,  until  now,  had  enlisted 
under  Mrs.  Bob's  banner  with  meekness,  if 
inwardly  remonstrant,  chose  now  to  sit  aloof, 
radiant  in  the  wide  circle  of  light  cast  by 
the  shade  of  a  standing  lamp.  She  had  a 
portfolio  of  etchings  in  her  lap,  and  her  pale 
cheeks  were  flushed  with  some  inward  ex- 
citement. Once,  when  Mrs.  Stryker  hap- 
pened to  catch  her  eye,  the  astute  little 
lady  read  there  a  defiance  that  fairly  startled 
her. 

"  It's  worse  even  than  I  thought,"  mur- 
mured the  older  of  the  duelists.  "  But,  oh! 
the  pity  of  it!" 

They  were  sitting,  by  common  consent,  in 
the  library,  the  great  drawing  rooms  with 
their  pier-glasses,  groups  of  statuary,  and 
crystal  chandeliers,  having,  in  their  formal 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG.  221 

chill,  no  charm  for  women  to  compare  with 
that  of  a  genuine  "  man's  room,"  lived  in 
and  warm  to  the  core  with  past  good-fellow- 
ship. The  re-entrance  of  the  gentlemen  was 
always  preluded  at  Talbot's  house  by  a  tea- 
table,  carried  in  by  the  ancient  butler,  and 
set  at  the  elbow  of  the  guest  of  honor  among 
the  ladies.  On  this  occasion,  Mrs.  Malbone, 
who  was  much  too  grand  to  make  tea,  be- 
sides being  interested  in  a  stolid  way  in  the 
particulars  of  a  divorce  case  Mrs.  Carver  was 
pouring  into  her  ears,  waved  the  man  aside. 
Then  Mrs.  Bob,  rising  to  the  emergency,  in- 
tercepted a  movement  on  Miss  Grafton's 
part,  and  beckoned  the  man  to  her  own 
neighborhood.  As  her  pretty  white  fingers, 
flashing  with  many  gems,  twinkled  in  and 
out  among  the  ponderous  tea-things  from 
which  Talbot's  mother  had  been  wont  to 
serve  the  cheery  beverage,  Mrs.  Bob  laughed 
her  merry,  lawless  laugh. 

"  Checkmate  again,  my  young  lady !  "  the 


222  A   HARP 


little  woman  said.  "  But  I  suppose  your 
time  will  come  !  " 

A  reluctant  prophesy,  which  seemed  likely 
to  be  fulfilled,  if  one  might  judge  from 
the  manner  of  the  master  of  the  house. 
Flushed,  animated  beyond  his  wont,  Talbot, 
on  coming  into  the  room,  went  at  once  to- 
ward Miss  Grafton's  side,  entering  into  a 
conversation  of  so  evidently  personal  a  char- 
acter that  people  looked  at  each  other  in 
astonishment.  It  was  as  if  Talbot  meant  to 
take  this  method  of  letting  his  friends  know 
the  truth  of  what  had  been,  till  then,  the 
merest  floating  gossip. 

And  now  the  party,  breaking  into  groups 
of  twos  or  threes,  wandered  about  the 
rooms,  handling  Talbot's  books,  eying  his 
porcelains  and  pictures  —  a  collection  notable 
for  excellence  in  this  dilettante  age  of  New 
York  art-history.  In  an  alcove,  framed  by 
the  projection  of  two  bookcases,  hung  a 
portrait  of  Talbot's  mother,  pink-tinted, 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG.  223 

smiling,  with  bunches  of  pale  brown  ring- 
lets on  either  temple,  a  white  gown  and  a 
vaporous  blue  scarf.  Below  it  stood  an  an- 
tique harp,  of  a  pattern  seen  in  American 
homes  at  the  beginning  of  this  century,  but 
unfamiliar  now.  The  gilding,  although 
dulled  by  time,  was  fine,  and  the  decora- 
tions of  painted  wreaths  of  sweet-pea  were 
remarkably  well  preserved.  "  Query  ?  "  said 
Langford  to  the  young  lady  at  his  side. 
"  Is  this  a  souvenir  of  the  lady  who  watches 
over  it,  or  simply  bric-a-brac  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  it  must  have  been  his  mother's," 
said  Miss  Carroll  carelessly,  stretching  out 
her  gloved  hand  to  run  it  across  the  strings. 
Tuneless,  yet  pathetic,  was  the  answer  of 
the  slumbering  spirit  within  the  instrument. 
A  sigh  rather  than  a  Avail,  an  echo  of  a 
heartbreak,  was  breathed  upon  the  air. 

Glenham,  on  duty  with  Mrs.  Malbone, 
had  not  been  able  to  keep  his  honest,  anx- 
ious eyes  from  roving  in  the  direction  of 


224  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG, 

Talbot's  t$te-a-t$te.  He  had  seen  Miss 
Grafton's  lashes  fall,  her  face,  half-shaded 
by  a  great  feather  fan,  assume  a  look  of  vir- 
gin innocence.  He  had  seen  Talbot's  eye 
kindle  with  an  eager  fire,  his  whole  air  indi- 
cating an  almost  boyish  disregard  of  com- 
ment from  lookers-on. 

"  Good  God  !  "  said  Glenham  to  himself. 
"It's  the  most  barefaced  infatuation  I  ever 
saw.  That  man  sacrificed  to  that  girl,  who 
is  not  worthy  to  tie  his  shoes.  Where  was 
I  that  matters  got  so  far  without  my  know- 
ing it  ?  He  won't  speak  here — if  he  hasn't 
spoken — but  there's  the  rub  ;  /tashe  spoken, 
or  is  there  yet  a  chance  ?  " 

The  twang  of  the  harpstrings  answered 
him.  Talbot,  as  he  had  done  once  before 
that  evening,  started,  shuddering.  He 
gasped,  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  gave 
a  quick  glance  at  the  group  around  the  harp, 
rallied,  and  tried  to  take  up  the  thread  of 
his  conversation  with  Miss  Grafton.  But 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG.  22$ 

with  a  difference.  Glenham,  drawing  a 
long,  deep  sigh  of  relief,  met  a  mocking 
glance  from  Mrs.  Bob. 

"  Where  did  he  get  this  dear,  quaint  old 
instrument?"  repeated  Miss  Carroll.  "I 
am  sure  it  has  a  history." 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Bob,  looking 
saucily  at  Talbot,  who  had  risen,  and  with 
his  unwilling  companion  was  coming  toward 
them,  "  for  I've  already  asked.  At  a  bric-a- 
brac  shop  on  Broadway.  In  our  part  of  the 
world  we  either  inherit  heirlooms  or  go 
without  them." 

During  the  week  following  the  dinner, 
Glenham  saw  nothing  of  his  friend,  either  at 
their  club  or,  according  to  their  custom, 
when  riding  together  daily  in  the  park.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  he  went  to  Talbot's 
house,  finding  him  alone  in  the  dining  room 
sitting  over  his  wine,  a  couple  of  fox-terriers 
in  chairs  on  either  side  of  him  watching  his 


226  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

every  movement  while  apparently  subdued 
into  attitudes  of  repose,  with  their  noses 
touching  their  fore-paws. 

"  Ha  !  Glenham !  This  is  a  happy  thought 
of  yours,"  he  said,  dislodging  a  terrier  to 
offer  his  friend  a  chair,  the  dog,  nothing 
daunted,  springing  with  prompt  agility  to 
nestle  on  his  master's  knee.  Glenham  saw 
on  Talbot's  face  lines  of  care  that  in  a  man 
of  his  age  come  only  too  readily  at  the  chaf- 
ing of  circumstances.  He  even  fancied  that 
Talbot  had  grown  grayer  in  a  week.  The 
two  men  smoked  for  a  while,  in  silence,  as 
old  comrades  are  privileged  to  do,  and,  after 
some  desultory  talk,  Talbot  spoke  abruptly: 

"  What  brutal  weather  we've  been  hav- 
ing ;  worthy  of  our  New  York  March  at  her 
worst !  I'm  outdone  with  it,  and  shall  start 
for  Florida  to-morrow." 

"  St.  Augustine,  and  that  sort  of  thing  !  " 
asked  Glenham. 

"  Not    if    I    know    myself.      The    Indian 


A    HARP  UNSTRUNG.  227 

River  now,  and  perhaps  I'll  wind  up  in  the 
West  Indies.  I'd  ask  you  to  come  along, 
old  man,  but  I  think  you'd  put  a  bullet 
through  me  for  a  bore,  before  two  days 
were  over." 

"  Well,  I've  tried  your  quality  before," 
was  Glenham's  answer.  He  felt  pretty 
sure  that  confidence  would  come,  and  come 
it  did. 

"  Glenham,"  said  his  friend  presently,  in 
somber  tones,  "you  saw  what  happened  here 
the  other  night?  I  know,  for  I  read  it  in 
your  face." 

"  This  is  a  bid  for  my  congratulations," 
said  Glenham  hoarsely,  his  heart  thumping 
with  real  pain. 

"  That  depends  on  how  you  look  at  it. 
If  you  mean  that  I  am  going  to  marry  Miss 
Grafton,  set  your  mind  at  rest ;  I  have  not 
asked  her;  I  shall  not  ask  her;  though  I'll 
own  I  came  precious  near  it.  No,  not  she, 
nor  anyone.  When  a  man's  possessed  by 


228  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

by-gones  to  the  extent  I  am,  you  may  give 
him  up.  I'm  a  hopeless  case,  Glenham — a 
hopeless  case." 

He  was  silent  for  a  while,  the  fox- 
terrier  licking  his  hand  first,  then  stand- 
ing on  its  hind  legs  to  rest  its  fore-paws 
on  his  waistcoat  in  the  attempt  to  lick 
his  face. 

"  You  saw  how  the  spirit  in  the  old 
harp  convicted  me  of  folly?  That  and 
another  incident  have  roused  in  my  brain 
of  late  a  witches'  Sabbat  of  old  mem- 
ories. I  long  for  the  South — the  South 
where  I  loved  and  suffered — where,  as  a  lad 
of  twenty,  all  the  poetry  of  my  life  was  writ- 
ten on  one  page,  then  sealed  from  sight  till 
now.  I  have  long  had  an  idea — the  most 
Quixotic  sort,  no  doubt — that  I  might  hunt 
up  L£nore  Detreville  and  her  children,  and 
do  something  to  help  them  in  their  strait. 
I  heard  of  her,  you  know,  after  I  came  on 
her  harp  in  the  hands  of  a  Broadway 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG.  22$ 

dealer,  and  recognized  it  by  the  initials  on 
the  plate.  I  traced  her  to  a  country  neigh- 
borhood in  Carolina,  where  she  was  living, 
a  widow  with  two  children,  in  the  poorest 
kind  of  way.  That  was  two  years  ago, 
and  when  I  heard  she  had  moved  away 
leaving  no  clew  that  I  could  follow,  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  chapter  of  my  life 
was  done  and  forever  put  away.  But  it 
isn't,  Glenham.  I'm  not  that  sort.  Con- 
found me,  I  wish  I  were.  In  the  midst  of 
our  dinner,  the  other  night,  the  sound  of  a 
street-singer's  voice,  chanting  the  old  tune 
Le"nore  used  to  sing  for  me  on  summer 
nights  in  the  Rose  Hill  drawing  room,  went 
through  me  like  a  knife.  In  a  moment  I 
seemed  to  smell  the  Cape  jasmines  in  the 
garden  outside,  and  to  see  the  big  stars 
shining  in  the  Southern  sky.  My  heart 
swelled  with  the  wish  to  love,  and  to  be 
loved  as  I  was  then.  The  passionate  de- 
light in  L6nore's  touch  and  presence  seemed 


230  A    HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

to  tingle  in  my  veins.  Was  it  any  wonder 
that  I  acted  like  a  madman?" 

"  It  is  impossible  that  you  shouldn't  find 
Mrs. — er — Haskett  again,  if  you  set  about  it 
in  good  earnest/'  said  Glenham,  in  his  prac- 
tical way.  "  But  I'll  warn  you,  Talbot, 
you're  no  fit  subject  for  that  sort  of  experi- 
ment. You  have  dwelt  upon  this  thing  for 
so  long  now,  it  is  like  a  monomania.  If 
you  did  meet  her,  no  doubt  it  would  be 
more  trying  than  anything  that  has  past. 
Pshaw  !  this  is  drivel  between  you  and  me. 
Hang  it  all,  Talbot,  why  didn't  you  run 
away  with  Miss  Detreville  that  time  and  be 
done  with  it  ?  It  would  have  been  all  for- 
given and  forgotten  by  her  people  when 
the  war  was  over.  What  were  those  four 
years  anyhow,  in  comparison  with  the  twenty 
odd  that  have  elapsed  since  you  and  I  were 
boys." 

"  Run  away,"  said  Talbot,  with  a  grim 
smile;  "why,  my  dear  boy,  have  you  for- 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG.  231 

gotten  the  spirit  of  those  Southern  girls 
at  the  outset  of  the  war?  They  actually 
yearned  to  immolate  themselves  on  the 
altar  of  their  country.  When  Lenore  heard 
me  say  that  I  should  feel  it  my  duty  to 
fight  with  the  North,  she  cast  me  from  her 
as  old  fanatics  cut  their  offending  hands  off. 
After  I  did  fight  against  her  people,  I  knew 
I  might  as  well  try  to  get  a  river  to  run 
backward  as  to  go  after  her  again.  Besides, 
you  forget ;  she  married  her  cousin,  Major 
Haskett.  We  killed  him  in  '65,  and  her 
father  died  a  pauper  from  the  war." 

Without,  the  wind  raved,  and  a  dash  of 
sleet  smote  on  the  windowpanes.  Glen- 
ham,  getting  up,  drew  aside  the  curtain 
and  looked  out  into  the  night.  Shiver- 
ing, he  came  back  to  his  comfortable 
corner. 

"Another  storm,"  he  said,  "  a  night  for 
wanderers  to  be  abed,  and  yet  I  fancied  I 
saw  a  tall  woman  across  the  street,  bending 


232  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

before  the  blast  and  snow  like  a  reed.     Ah ! 
what  is  that  ?  " 

Not  a  cry  of  distress,  as  they  both  fancied, 
but,  as  before,  a  woman's  voice,  singing  the 
sad  old  song : 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells, 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 

"If  not  bewitched,  what  am  I?"  ex- 
claimed Talbot,  springing  to  his  feet,  his 
face  twitching.  "  By  Jove,  Glenham,  I 
can't  stand  this;  I  could  swear  that  is  Ig- 
nore Detreville's  voice!  Ring  the  bell,  will 
you?  No,  stay!  I'll  go  myself.  I'll  pay 
this  singing  woman  any  money  never  to 
come  back  here." 

Glenham,  whom  curiosity  led  to  lift  the 
shade  and  look  outside,  saw  Talbot's  pow- 
erful form  dart  out  into  the  storm  and  ap- 
proach the  hooded  creature  who  stood 
clinging  to  the  railing  of  the  steps.  In  the 


A  HARP  UNSTRUNG.  233 

white  glare  of  the  electric  light,  he  saw, 
also,  to  his  unqualified  astonishment,  the 
woman  stretch  out  her  arms  toward  his 
friend,  then  throwing  them  above  her  head 
with  a  gesture  of  despair,  sway  forward  as 
if  about  to  fall. 

They  bore  her  gently  into  the  house. 
Talbot's  old  housekeeper  took  the  fainting 
wanderer  in  charge,  and  Talbot  told  his 
friend  that  he  had  thus  met  again  the  love 
of  his  long-gone  youth.  When  conscious- 
ness returned  she  plead  pitifully  to  be  taken 
to  her  child — her  dying  son — for  whose 
necessity  the  gently  born  and  nurtured 
woman,  starving  and  friendless  in  the  streets 
of  the  great  city,  had  stooped  to  this 
crudest  extremity  of  effort.  Lenore  had 
recognized  Talbot,  who  at  first  still  believed 
himself  to  be  the  victim  of  hallucination 
when  he  identified  her  features. 

She  had  gone  to  his  house,  not  knowing 
whose  it  might  be,  simply  because  there,  a 


234  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

week  before,  on  the  occasion  of  her  first 
direful  attempt,  generous  alms  had  been 
given  her;  money  that  till  now  had  sufficed 
to  keep  her  and  her  sufferer  in  life. 

Reunited  to  her  boy  for  whose  sake  she 
had  braved  and  borne  so  much,  believing 
that  employment  and  success  would  ulti- 
mately come  to  him  in  the  metropolis,  L£- 
nore  almost  forgot  Talbot  in  her  ecstacy  of 
hope  that  she  might  win  back  to  health  and 
strength  again  the  child  who  was  more  to 
her  sad  heart  than  any  lover. 

Talbot  suspected  this,  suspected  it  with  a 
pang,  when,  the  crisis  of  her  son's  illness  past, 
he  again  met  his  old  love  face  to  face.  She 
had  changed  less  than  had  at  first  appeared. 
Her  old  willowy  grace  remained,  her  glorious 
dark  eyes  shone  out  of  a  pale,  moonlit  face, 
her  occasional  smile  charmed  him  with  a 
reminiscence  of  past  joys.  The  attitude 
into  which  fate  had  thus  forced  her,  of  a  sup- 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG.  235 

pliant  for  his  alms,  filled  him  with  reverential 
tenderness.  To  gather  her  and  hers  into  a 
home  was  henceforth  his  dearest  wish.  How 
to  effect  it,  was  the  problem  that  puzzled 
him  day  and  night.  Glenham  came  away 
from  the  interview  with  Mrs.  Haskett,  in 
which  he  acted  for  his  friend  trying  to 
phrase  the  offer  of  substantial  help  from  Tal- 
bot,  feeling  profoundly  sad  and  touched. 
He  had  seen  enough  of  the  terrible  after- 
chapters  of  the  war  to  know  that  L£nore's 
was  no  unprecedented  case.  His  chivalry 
laid  itself  at  the  feet  of  this  beautiful  woman, 
born  to  bestow,  not  ask  for  bounty,  who  was 
now  only  a  poor  waif  of  the  great  Southern 
wreck,  beaten  by  wind  and  wave  into  an 
alien  port — a  woman  who  wore  her  sorrows 
like  a  crown.  But  more  than  all  was  he  sad 
because  he  saw  what  his  friend  was  slower 
in  discerning— that  Talbot  could  no  more 
rekindle  the  flame  of  love  in  her  heart  than 
he  could  relight  a  lamp  that  had  no  oil. 


236  A    HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

Glenham  trusted  rightly  in  the  healthy 
tone  of  Talbot's  mind  for  adjusting  the  con- 
fusion that  had  so  long  possessed  it.  L6- 
nore's  presence  in  the  flesh,  his  frequent 
talks  with  her,  gradually  weaned  him  from 
dwelling  on  illusions.  His  old  self,  that  had 
so  long  walked  like  a  ghost  in  the  haunts  of 
memory,  died  with  a  final  throb.  He  was 
no  more  the  fond  young  lover  masquerading 
under  the  early  snows  that  drop  on  the  head 
of  "  forty  year."  He  was  a  man,  mature 
and  generous,  strong  to  rule  himself  and  to 
think  for  others.  His  first  care  had  been  to 
secure  for  Le"nore  and  for  her  son  some  tri- 
fling employment  that  robbed  the  situation  of 
its  sting;  for  he  had  insisted  on  establishing 
them  in  rooms  looking  on  a  city  park,  where 
she  might  watch  the  unfolding  of  the  spring. 
Then  he  eased  her  sorest  anxiety  by  promis- 
ing to  charge  himself  with  the  future  of  her 
son,  her  other  child,  a  daughter,  having 
been  left  to  share  the  poverty  of  relatives  in 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 


the  South.  In  time  Talbot  hoped  to  bring 
the  little  family  together,  but  of  that  she 
would  not  hear  as  yet. 

Glenham's  visits  to  Mrs.  Haskett's  new 
quarters  were  almost  as  frequent  as  those  of 
Talbot.  From  the  two  she  enjoyed  a  hun- 
dred marks  of  delicate  sympathy.  Noth- 
ing, however,  went  so  promptly  to  her 
heart,  melting  her  to  exquisite  tender- 
ness, as  when  her  old  harp,  restrung, 
found  its  way  to  her  little  sitting  room. 
Sometimes  she  would  run  her  thin  fingers 
over  it,  but  never  again  was  heard  in 
song  the  voice  that  had  once  caused 
Talbot's  soul  to  "  float  like  an  enchanted 
boat  upon  the  silver  waves  of  her  sweet 
singing." 

Before  the  spring  was  fairly  changed  to 
summer,  it  became  apparent  that  all  plans 
for  L£nore's  future  were  to  be  interrupted  by 
the  strong  hand  that  overreaches  man's  best 
reckonings.  A  cold,  induced  by  exposure, 


A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 


passed  into  a  malady  her  enfeebled  frame 
could  not  resist. 

In  the  first  stage  of  her  illness,  Talbot 
found  her  restless,  nervous,  unlike  the  brave 
and  self-contained  woman  she  had  shown  her- 
self to  be. 

"  I  have  taken  a  liberty,"  he  said,  striving 
to  speak  lightly,  although  a  chill  of  dread 
passed  into  his  veins  ;  "  in  spite  of  your 
refusal  to  let  me  send  to  fetch  your  daugh- 
ter, I  have  arranged  for  her  to  come  North 
with  some  friends  returning  this  week  to 
town.  If  all  goes  well,  she  should  be  with 
you  by  Saturday  at  latest." 

Le'nore's  eyes  shone  brilliantly,  a  deep 
red  spot  flamed  in  either  cheek.  Ill  as 
she  was,  she  looked  the  embodiment  of 
joy. 

"  She  will  come  !  I  shall  see  her  once 
again!  My  darling,  my  treasure,  for  whom 
I  have  been  longing  hour  by  hour  ever  since 
I  left  her  in  that  sordid  home.  Now  you 


A    HARP   UNSTRUNG.  239 

have  put  the  finishing  touch  to  all  your 
kindness." 

"  There  is  no  need  of  words  between  us 
two,"  said  Talbot.  "  The  idea  of  that  poor 
child  needing  you  as  you  have  needed  her, 
has  been  haunting  me.  It  is  an  actual  relief 
to  me  to  send  for  her.  And  the  people  with 
whom  she  will  travel  northward  are  all 
that  you  could  wish — refined,  whole-souled, 
kindly.  The  Carltons  have  no  young  people 
of  their  own,  and  will  no  doubt  take  her  to 
their  hearts." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  she  said.  "  Oh  !  Lenore 
will  be  to  her  brother  what  I  have  been. 
Louis  can  support  her  until  she  finds  work 
to  do.  Lenore  must  succeed — she  is  so 
clever — she  is  so  noble — she  has  borne  every- 
thing so  bravely.  Ah  !•  all  I  had  left  to  wish 
for  was  that  you  might  know  Lenore!  " 

A  few  nights  later,  after  a  struggle  short 
and  sharp,  her  watchers  saw  peace  return  to 


240  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

her  troubled  brow.     She  had  heard  a  foot- 
step on  the  stair. 

The  door  opened  and  a  girl,  pale  with  an- 
guish, but  in  Talbot's  eyes  a  rare,  fine  image 
of  his  L£nore  at  seventeen,  swiftly  crossed 
the  floor,  throwing  herself  in  an  agony  of 
grief  upon  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 

Talbot  went  to  the  window  of  the  adjoin- 
ing room  and  gazed  out  into  the  night. 
Clouds  were  hurrying  across  the  sky,  fitful 
and  fantastic,  as  if  to  bear  the  tidings  that  a 
soul  was  free.  He  wondered  if  his  heart  too 
were  dead,  that  it  had  ceased  to  ache.  Then 
the  clouds  passed,  and  the  moon  rode  out 
between  them  in  unstained  majesty.  From 
the  chamber  that  had  held  Le"nore  her  son 
came  to  him  weeping. 

"You  are  mine,  now,"  Talbot  said,  hold- 
ing his  hand  out  to  the  handsome  lad.  Only 
to  utter  the  words  sent  a  quick  thrill  of 
human  warmth  into  him. 


A    HARP  UNSTRUNG.  241 

"  But  poor  L£nore  ?  "  Louis  said,  falter- 
ing. 

"  Oh,  she  is  mine,  too,"  Talbot  answered, 
trying  to  speak  cheerfully,  and  again  the 
door  opened,  and  looking  up,  he  saw  his 
lost  love's  eyes  shining  upon  him  through 
her  daughter's  tears. 

When  it  was  noised  abroad  that  the  lad 
Talbot  had  adopted  was  the  child  of  an  early 
friend  left  destitute  by  war,  many  were 
the  comments  of  society  upon  his  action. 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Bob,  in 
her  stall  at  a  bazaar  where,  jauntily  attired  as 
a  Russian  peasant,  she  was  vending  Russian 
tea,  "it's  all  very  well  about  the  boy,  but  for 
a  girl  as  pretty  as  that  one  Mrs.  Carlton  has 
taken  into  her  home,  this  fatherly  enthusiasm 
will  soon  wear  itself  out.  Talbot  will  find 
another  place  for  her  in  that  great  big  heart 
of  his  ;  at  least,  I  hope  so.  I,  for  one,  have 
no  patience  with  martyrs." 


242  A   HARP  UNSTRUNG. 

"Talbot's  no  martyr,"  said  Glenham,  to 
whom  the  outspoken  lady  had  addressed 
herself.  "  He  is  more  cheerful,  more  equa- 
ble than  he  has  been  in  years.  As  for  Miss 
Haskett,  she's  simply  enchanting.  If  Tal- 
bot  will  give  me  leave,  I  shall  propose  for 
her  myself." 

"  Don't,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Bob,  putting  a 
slice  of  lemon  in  his  glass;  "that  would 
leave  the  coast  clear  for  our  common  enemy, 
Miss  Grafton." 

"  Haven  t  you  heard  ?  "  asked  Glenham,  in 
astonishment.  "You,  the  headquarters  of 
all  gossip  that  is  worth  listening  to  ?  Her 
engagement  to  old  Slowmore  is  announced, 
and  before  the  year  is  out  the  enterprising 
Maud  will  be  in  possession  of  his  abundant 
shekels." 

"Goodness!"  said  Mrs.  Bob. 


A  SUIT  DECIDED. 


A  POPULAR  writer  for  the  Cosmos  Maga- 
zine of  New  York,  having  accomplished  an 
article  about  the  home  and  haunts  of  old 
Gilbert  White  of  Selbourne,  the  Cosmos 
editors,  in  whose  eyes  the  article  found 
favor,  had  instructed  one  of  their  wandering 
artists,  then  in  London,  to  go  down  to  Sel- 
bourne and  make  sketches  of  the  house  and 
grounds  and  church. 

Robert  Kenyon,the  young  man  to  whose 
lot  fell  this  pleasant  pilgrimage,  left  his 
lodging  in  town  one  August  morning  and, 
casting  a  light  portmanteau  and  still  lighter 
knapsack,  with  his  staff  and  umbrella,  into 
the  hansom  at  his  door,  gave  the  driver 
orders  to  proceed  to  Waterloo  station. 


244  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

Kenyon  had  no  very  clear  idea  of  the 
place  of  his  destination.  He  vaguely  re- 
called Gilbert  White  as  an  amiable  old  par- 
son who  wrote  about  birds  and  weather, 
and  set  down  the  dates  of  the  annual  ap- 
pearance of  all  things  that  flew  and  grew 
and  blossomed  in  his  neighborhood. 

The  artist  had  put  into  his  knapsack 
a  roll  of  typed  MS.  sent  to  him  by  the 
editors,  representing  the  impression  made 
by  Selbourne  upon  the  author  he  was  to 
illustrate;  and  this  he  meant,  upon  the  first 
convenient  opportunity,  to  consult.  But 
mankind  is  apt  to  put  off  reading  typed 
MS.  It  is  a  shade  less  interesting  than 
MS.  in  pen  and  ink,  and  one  must  be  born 
with  a  love  for  that. 

Kenyon,  even  in  the  short  run  to  Dork- 
ing, where  he  desired  to  tarry  on  the  way, 
found  metal  more  attractive  for  his  eyes 
than  the  clever  American  lady's  views  of 
the  abode  of  Gilbert  White.  He  dawdled 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  245 

at  Dorking  for  a  day  or  so,  and  after  an 
enfeebling  interview  with  Bradshaw  and 
local  railway  guides,  shipped  his  port- 
manteau by  train  to  Guild  ford,  and  started 
south  on  foot.  His  delight  was  in  solitary 
tramps,  and,  ere  long,' within  thirty  miles  of 
the  huge  heart  of  England,  he  struck  into 
a  region  of  rolling  hills  abloom  with  purple 
heather,  and  came  out  upon  a  summit  where 
a  stone  tower  marks  the  highest  point  of 
the  North  Downs. 

It  was  a  clear  morning,  and  after  buy- 
ing for  a  penny  permission  from  an  old 
woman  to  mount  the  tower,  he  faced 
one  of  the  most  glorious  views  in  Eng- 
land. Five  counties  clad  in  midsummer 
garb  lay  at  his  feet,  and  all  about  him 
were  broken  hills  and  deep  hollows  filled 
with  heath  and  furze  and  bracken  or  cluster- 
ing woods. 

As  Kenyon,  descending  from  the  tower, 
climbed  up  over  the  door  outside,  to  study 


246  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

a  half-effaced  inscription  in  Latin,  placed 
there  by  an  Evelyn,  descendant  of  the 
gossiping  old  chronicler  of  the  court  of 
Charles  II.,  and  forbear  of  the  present  lord 
of  the  neighboring  manor,  he  heard  a  voice 
of  a  kind  often  breaking  the  repose  that 
hangs  around  Old-World  shrines — a  voice 
not  mellowed  by  soft  English  airs,  but 
sharpened  by  the  dry  winds  of  the  Western 
Continent. 

"  It's  a  fine  open  piece  of  country,  and 
salubrious,  no  doubt,"  observed  a  gentleman 
wearing  a  high  hat  set  back  upon  his  crown, 
and  what  in  America  is  known  as  a  "  busi- 
ness suit  "  of  tweeds,  wrinkled  and  baggy  at 
the  knees.  "  But  I  can't  say  I  perceive  any 
remarkable  points  about  this  landscape,  ex- 
cept  the  Crystal  Palace,  that  I'd  as  lief  for- 
get since  the  day  you  brought  my  lumbago 
back  walking  me  over  it.  However,  I  guess 
it'll  even  up  on  historical  association.  They 
generally  do.  So,  come  on,  Idalia,  trot  out 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  247 

your  history,  and  let's  get  it  over  while  I've 
got  strength  to  listen." 

"  Sh — sh!  papa !"  said  a  girl's  reproving 
tones ;  and  at  once  the  obedient  gentleman, 
with  a  glance  at  Kenyon  and  a  shrug  of 
comical  resignation  to  authority,  was  si- 
lenced. 

Kenyon,  coming  back  to  terra  fir  ma,  ven- 
tured a  look  at  the  historical  Idalia,  whom 
he  found  to  be  a  young  and  very  pretty  girl, 
attired  in  the  soft  blending  of  grays  and 
white  seen  in  the  plumage  of  a  gull,  and  car- 
rying a  notebook  and  pencil  in  her  hand. 
Piqued,  apparently,  by  the  unconsciously 
approving  survey  bestowed  on  her  by  the 
stranger,  she  went  off  to  ascend  the  tower, 
at  which  the  gentleman  in  tweeds  relaxed 
his  decorum  and  sidled  up  in  Kenyon's  im- 
mediate vicinity. 

"  Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir,"  he  said  cor- 
dially. "  My  name's  McCunn — Cyrus  K. 
McCunn,  of  Sago  Falls,  Wisconsin,  now  a 


248  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

resident  of  New  York  City.  I  am  traveling 
with  m'  wife  and  daughter,  an'  m'  wife,  who's 
rather  fleshy,  draws  the  line  at  towers,  and 
summits  generally  ;  but  I  have  yet  to  see 
any  eminence  in  art  or  nature  that  can  daunt 
the  spirit  or  take  the  wind  out  of  Miss 
McCunn." 

"You  are  fortunate  in  your  companion," 
said  Kenyon,  in  a  perfunctory  way. 

"  Yes,  sir,  very,"  said  the  good-natured 
Mr.  McCunn.  "  But  to  tell  you  the  facts  of 
the  case,  it  was  all  very  well  on  our  last  two 
visits  to  Europe,  when  we  kept  on  the 
beaten  tracks  and  did  the  regular  things  set 
down  on  the  guidebooks,  that  you  can  read 
up  at  night  for  the  next  day,  and  check  off 
when  you've  finished  them.  I  flatter  my- 
self I  stood  that  like  a  man.  But  it's  Miss 
McCunn's  last  caper  that  her  mother  and  I 
feel  like  speaking  up  against,  only,  of  .course, 
we  don't.  This  trip,  she's  taken  it  into  her 
head  to  include  the  by-ways  and  less  familiar 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  249 

places  that  have  to  do  with  a  course  of  liter- 
ature she  and  some  other  ladies  went  in  for, 
last  Lent,  in  New  York  City.  I  believe 
Miss  McCunn's  to  read  a  paper  before  the 
class,  next  Lent,"  he  added,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye. 

"  Good  !  Perhaps  here's  my  chance  to  hear 
about  Gilbert  White,"  came  into  Kenyon's 
mind.  But  he  suppressed  satiric  comment, 
and  Mr.  JVTcCunn  again  took  up  his  tale. 

"Just  now,  it's  Southern  England,  and 
the  cathedral  towns  we're  after  chiefly, 
I  believe.  Miss  McCunn's  paper's  to  be 
about  the  town  she  likes  the  best.  I  hope 
it'll  be  a  short  one.  Winchester,  where  we  go 
next,  has  a  good-sized  cathedral  and  schools 
and  almshouses,  too,  I'm  told,  and  would 
take  longer  than  the  others  to  do,  archaeolog- 
ically,  as  Miss  McCunn  means  to  do  it.  I 
hope  she  won't  fake  much  of  a  fancy  to 
Winchester.  There  must  be  some  of  'em 
shorter.  If  her  mother  and  I  could  only 


250  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

sit  in  hotels,  or  even  in  carriages  and 
wait  for  her.  But  m*  wife  says  it  isn't  the 
thing  to  let  a  young  lady  go  around  alone 
in  the  old  countries,  though  England  isn't 
as  bad  as  it  was  on  the  Continent  of  Europe. 
Yes,  sir,  I've  known  myself  in  by-gone  days 
to  pity  the  sorrows  of  the  unfortunate  hack- 
men,  but,  by  George,  it  isn't  a  patch  on  the 
waiting  I've  done  for  Miss  McCunn.  I  sup- 
pose we've  got  to  take  the  consequences  of 
her  having  graduated  No.  I  at  the  Skowhegan 
Female  College,  in  our  State,  when  she  was 
sixteen,  three  years  ago.  And  since  we 
moved  to  New  York  to  live,  it's  been  noth- 
ing but  masters  and  lectures  and  subscribing 
to  magazines  and  libraries.  We  take  six 
American,  three  English,  two  French,  and 
one  German  periodical,  sir.  Miss  McCunn 
cuts  the  leaves  of  all  of  'em,  and  puts  marks 
in  the  articles  she  thinks  best  for  her  mother 
and  me  to  read.  But  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
sir,  by  the  time  I've  looked  at  the  advertise- 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  251 

ments,  front  and  back,  I'm  pretty  apt  to 
drop  asleep,  of  an  evening,  over  most  of 
'em." 

Kenyon,  basely  conscious  of  fellow-feeling, 
here  broke  into  a  cheery  laugh ;  and  at  this 
juncture  the  young  lady,  who  had  been 
jotting  entries  in  her  little  book,  rejoined 
them. 

"  I  think  I  have  all  I  need  now,  papa," 
she  said,  in  a  businesslike  way.  "  And  if 
you  would  like  to  return  to  the  carriage  to 
mamma  and  go  on  to  Wootton,  I'm  ready." 

"  All  right,  Idalia,"  responded  her  father, 
preparing  to  move  on,  in  a  stiff  fashion  that 
suggested  to  Kenyon  the  first  locomotion 
of  a  cab-horse  after  a  wait.  "  Have  you 
found  out  yet  who's  the  owner  of  this 
eminence  and  tower?" 

"  Oh !  yes,  the  lord  of  the  manor,  of 
course.  '  Gulielmus  Johannes  Evelyn,  Domi- 
nus  Manorii,'  the  old  one  was  called." 

"  Did  he  put  all  that  on  his  visiting  card, 


A  SUIT  DECIDED. 


I  wonder?"  said  Mr.  McCunn.  "Well,  sir, 
I'll  bid  you  good-morning.  I'd  like  to  make 
you  acquainted  with  my  daughter,  Miss  Mc- 
Cunn, Mr.  --  " 

"  Kenyon,"  supplied  the  young  man,  tak- 
ing off  his  hat  to  the  girl,  who  bowed  and 
blushed  slightly.  "  And  a  countryman  of 
your  own,  Mr.  McCunn." 

"  My  dear  sjr,  allow  me  to  shake  hands 
with  you,"  said  the  other  warmly.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon  a  thousand  times,  but  I  took 
you  for  a  Britisher." 

Kenyon  laughed  again,  as  he  parted  with 
them,  and  smiled  more  than  once  at  the  rec- 
ollection of  the  prize  pupil  of  Skowhegan 
Female  College  and  her  resigned  parent. 
And  more  than  once,  also,  he  caught  him- 
self reverting  admiringly  to  the  prize  pupil's 
erect  figure,  her  peach-blossom  cheeks,  and 
her  thick  masses  of  waving  golden  hair. 

Striking  north  by  compass  over  the  cattle- 
tracked  common,  he  at  last  found  his  be- 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  253 

lated  way  to  the  public  at  Wootton  Hatch, 
where,  under  the  portraits  of  the  queen  and 
sundry  Evelyns,  he  dispatched  a  lunch  of 
bread  and  cheese  and  beer  ;  then,  resuming 
his  line  of  march,  went  on  through  seven 
miles  of  lovely  rural  landscape  to  Guildford, 
where  he  took  train  for  Alton,  the  station 
nearest  Selbourne. 

Now,  indeed,  there  was  no  longer  time  to 
delay  informing  himself  about  the  object  of 
his  jaunt,  and  taking  out  the  MS.  Mr.  Ken- 
yon  speedily  ran  over  its  contents.  The 
author,  it  should  be  said,  was  none  other 
than  the  accomplished  Mrs.  Euretta  Hardy 
Lodge,  whose  sketches  of  foreign  travel  are 
so  favorably  known  throughout  her  native 
country,  and  whose  charming  "  Glimpses  at 
Avon  "  Kenyon  had  illustrated  the  year  be- 
fore for  another  magazine ;  and  as  he 
read  on  to  the  end,  he  felt  she  had,  here,  ac- 
quitted herself  well.  He  remembered  all 
now — the  very  look  of  the  copy  of  "  White's 


254  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

Selbourne,"  with  its  engravings  of  birds  and 
beasts  and  insects,  over  which  he  used  as  a 
little  boy  to  pore  in  his  uncle's  old  rectory  in 
the  New  England  town  where  he  grew  up  ! 
And  then  the  train  slowed  beside  a  platform, 
and  "  Alton  "  was  written  on  a  sign  before 
his  eyes. 

Taking  a  rusty  little  trap,  Kenyon,  who 
had  had,  for  the  day,  enough  of  tramping, 
drove  through  a  region  beautiful  as  many- 
shaded  verdure  and  lengthening  shadows 
of  the  afternoon  could  make  it.  But  owing 
to  the  extraordinary  depth  of  the  lanes, 
"worn"  (vide  G.  White  himself)  "by  the 
traffic  of  ages,  and  the  fretting  of  water 
down  through  the  first  stratum  of  freestone, 
and  partly  through  the  second,  in  many 
places  sixteen  or  eighteen  feet  beneath  the 
level  of  the  fields,"  there  was  little  scenery 
until  the  great  chalk-hill  above  the  village 
came  into  sight. 

The  cart    climbed   up  the  single  narrow 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  255 

street  and  deposited  our  artist  at  the 
"  Queen's  Arms,"  and  Kenyon  bethought 
him,  as  it  was  then  well  on  to  seven  o'clock, 
to  order  dinner. 

"  What  can  I  have  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  land- 
lady. 

"  Chops,  sir,  or  bacon  and  heggs,  or  what- 
ever you"  please  to  choose,  sir,  if  you  can 
wait.  But  there's  a  joint  down  for  the 
hother  party,  sir,  hand  a  pair  of  fowls — 
hand  hit's  hordered  hat  seven  o'clock,  sir, 
hin  the  sitting  room,  hupstairs." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Kenyon,  seeing  what 
was  expected  of  him.  "  Then  I'll  take  my 
share  of  the  joint  at  seven — and  soup,  I  sup- 
pose, and  a  tart  to  follow.  I  only  hope  the 
other  party'll  be  on  time." 

"Who  beside  myself  has  chanced  to  wan- 
der to  this  sweet  and  placid  nook  ?  "  he  won- 
dered, strolling  out  presently  for  a  glimpse 
at  the  little  church. 

The  church  door  was  unlocked,  and  he 


256  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

heard  people  talking  within.  Going  to  the 
portal,  he  ventured  a  glance  inside  and  be- 
held, in  custody  of  the  witch-like  old  woman 
carrying  the  keys,  a  pair  in  whom  he  recog- 
nized the  acquiescent  McCunn  and  Skow- 
hegan's  pride,  Idalia !  On  a  tombstone 
without  sat  a  large  lady  fanning  herself  with 
a  palm-leaf  fan,  who  smiled  on  him  blandly 
in  response  to  his  salutation. 

"I'm  right  afraid  of  these  churches,"  she 
volunteered  to  say.  "  They  'most  always 
give  me  a  check  of  perspiration.  I  think 
this  is  the  eighteenth  or  nineteenth  sacred 
building  my  daughter  and  husband  have 
done  this  summer.  Daughter  never  tires  of 
churches,  now.  But  then,  she  never  gets 
tired  of  anything.  Often  and  often  I  say  to 
her,  '  Daughter,  stretch  yourself  out  for  a 
half  hour  every  day  on  the  recliner,  now, 
and  it'll  add  ten  years  to  your  life.'  " 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  making  ac- 
quaintance with  Mr.  and  Miss  McCunn  at 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  257 

Leith  Hill,  this  morning,  madam,"  said 
Kenyon.  "  But  I  had  no  idea  I  should  so 
soon  meet  them  again,  and  in  this  rather  un- 
usual place." 

"  Oh  !  nothing's  too  unusual  for  daugh- 
ter !  "  answered  the  lady  in  a  monotonous 
voice,  with  an  unchanging  countenance. 
Kenyon,  accepting  this  as  final,  bowed  again 
and  betook  himself  to  a  study  of  the  old 
yew  tree,  coeval  with  the  church,  which, 
measuring  in  White's  day  three-and-twenty 
feet  in  girth,  has  now  expanded  to  an  actual 
circumference  of  twenty-seven,  and  a  re- 
puted one  of  thirty-six  feet. 

Here  he  was  joined  by  Mr.  McCunn,  who 
gave  him  cordial  greeting. 

"Mr.  Kenyon,  sir!  I'm  delighted  to 
meet  you  again.  Of  course  you  are  stop- 
ping at  the  Queen's  Arms,  and  I  hope  you 
will  dine  with  us — unless,"  with  a  falling 
face,  "  you  are  the  guest  of  the  family  at 
the  house." 


258  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

"  I'm  the  veriest  wayfarer,  and,  until  to- 
day, had  no  idea  of  what  I  was  coming  to. 
I'm  afraid  our  good  hostess  at  the  inn  had 
already  made  up  her  mind  to  billet  me  upon 
the  dinner  ordered  for  you.  I  fancy  there 
is  no  great  run  of  custom  in  these  parts. 
But  it's  very  kind  to  make  me  one  of  your 
party,  and  I  accept  with  thanks." 

"  Talk  about  Robinson  Crusoe  looking 
for  the  tracks  of  a  white  man,  sir,"  said 
McCunn,  walking  beside  him,  following  the 
ladies,  a  moment  later  ;  "  and  you  can 
understand  my  feelings  when  I  meet  a 
fellow-citizen  in  a  place  like  this.  I  believe 
I  didn't  mention  to  you  this  morning,  that 
the  lady — an  elegant  lady,  sir,  an  ornament 
to  American  womanhood — who  conducts 
the  literature  class  to  which  Miss  McCunn 
belongs,  has  written  an  article  about  this 
venerable  village  that's  to  be  published  in 
one  of  our  leading  magazines — no  doubt 
sir,  you  have  heard  of  her — all  Ameri- 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  259 

cans  are  proud  of  Mrs.  Euretta  Hardy 
Lodge. 

"And  that  is  what  brought  you  here?" 
Kenyon  began,  and  refrained  from  finishing. 

"  Exactly,"  answered  Mr.  McCunn,  ap- 
preciating Kenyon's  point.  "  I  remarked 
to  you  this  morning  that  Miss  McCunn's 
layout,  at  present,  is  the  unhackneyed  past. 
But  I  am  pleased  to  say  that  she  has  given 
her  mother  and  me  reason  to  believe  she  will 
finish  Selbourne  in  time  for  the  2:15  train 
from  Alton  to  Winchester  to-morrow.  In 
the  meantime,  I  have  no  great  hopes  of  the 
bill  of  fare,  have  you  ?  " 

Their  dinner,  served  in  a  stuffy  sitting 
room  by  the  light  of  a  dimly  burning  oil 
lamp,  was  an  experience  happily  brought 
soon  to  an  end  ;  and  after  it  Kenyon 
strolled  away  with  his  cigarette,  to  enjoy 
the  long  soft  evening  light  from  the  beech 
wood  called  "  The  Hanger,"  clothing  part 
of  the  chalk  cliff  that  dominates  the  village. 


260  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

Stretching  himself  at  length  under  a  tree, 
he  gazed  down  at  the  humble  dwellings,  the 
church,  and  "  The  Wakes  "  amid  its  ample 
lawns,  all  a  hundred  feet  below  ;  and  a  reverie 
that  was  sweet  and  restful  as  England's 
atmosphere  could  make  it,  took  possession 
of  his  soul. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said,  in  rather  dis- 
tressful cadence,  the  voice  of  Miss  McCunn  ; 
"I  hate  to  disturb  you,  but  I'm  quite  sure 
I  left  my  notebook  there,  when  I  climbed 
farther  up  the  hill." 

"  So  you  did,"  remarked  Kenyon,  stirring 
himself  to  discover  something  square  and 
hard  under  his  left  shoulder  blade.  "  Why, 
what  a  fleet  nymph  you  must  be  to  have 
distanced  me  in  getting  here.  I  thought 
you  had  gone  with  your  mother  to  her 
room." 

"  I  came  off  when  you  and  papa  were 
waiting  for  your  coffee,"  she  said.  "  I  did 
want  to  give  my  poor  father  a  rest,  and, 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  261 

besides,  I  like  to  be  alone  in  an  hour  and 
place  like  this." 

"  That's  an  unkind  hint,"  said  Kenyon, 
getting  upon  his  feet. 

"  Oh !  please,  I  didn't  mean  to  seem 
rude,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  am  going  di- 
rectly back  to  the  inn." 

"  Don't  go,"  he  urged,  admiring  her  girlish 
readiness  to  take  alarm.  "  Sit  down  here  a 
few  minutes,  and  enjoy  this  pearly  atmos- 
phere, the  deepening  of  all  those  greens  and 
the  exquisite  charmed  slumber  of  the  homes 
nestled  in  leafage  below — one  never  has 
such  an  impression  of  peace  in  any  Ameri- 
can landscape  where  man  has  settled." 

The  frank  Idalia,  bestowing  on  him  a 
pleased  smile,  took  her  seat  beside  him  on 
the  cliff,  and  they  began  a  talk  that  lasted 
until  growing  dusk  sent  her  springing 
lightly  as  a  young  fawn  down  the  hill-path, 
for  a  second  time  neglectful  of  the  note- 
book, that  compendium  of  valuable  informa- 


262  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

tion,  bound  in  green  alligator-skin  and  edged 
and  clasped  with  silver,  that  Kenyon  again 
picked  up  and  carried  after  her. 

They  met,  walking  in  the  middle  of  the 
village  street,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  wearing 
his  hat  a-tilt  as  usual,  the  unruffled  Mr. 
McCunn. 

"  I  cal'lated  you  young  folks  were  off  to- 
gether," he  said  pleasantly.  "  Idalia,  my 
dear,  your  mother's  about  read  up  all  the 
literature  in  that  sitting  room,  I  reckon  ; 
and  she's  talking  some  of  going  to  bed. 
Mr.  Kenyon,  sir,  this  place  of  resort  aint  as 
exciting  as  the  Stock  Exchange  in  New 
York  City  in  a  boom.  Will  you  walk  up 
and  down  a  bit,  and  try  one  of  my  cigars?  " 

From  his  artless  compatriot,  our  artist  as- 
certained sundry  details  of  his  life  and  con- 
dition in  the  States.  Cyrus  K.  McCunn, 
beginning  life  as  a  mechanic,  had  invented 
an  automatic  car-coupler,  for  use  in  railway 
trains,  and,  this  proving  a  success,  had 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  263 

for  a  number  of  years  enjoyed  an  ample 
income  from  royalties  paid  by  the  com- 
panies which  used  it. 

Having  set  out  on  the  glittering  road  to 
wealth,  the  temptation  of  Cyrus  had  been 
next  to  add  to  his  gains  by  speculation,  and 
it  was  plain  to  Kenyon  that  the  poor  man's 
heart  was  left  behind  in  the  fevered  atmos- 
phere where  dollars  change  hands  before 
moth  or  rust  has  time  to  corrupt  their 
sheen. 

"If  the  ladies  didn't  mind  my  leaving 
them,"  he  said  pathetically,  "  you'd  better 
believe,  sir,  that  I'd  be  off  from  here  at  day- 
break, and  catch  the  next  North  German 
Lloyd's  boat  at  Southampton  sailing  for 
New  York.  When  they  told  me  how  near 
Winchester — that's  our  next  stopping-place 
— is  to  Southampton,  sir,  I  just  thought  of 
that  steamer's  gang-plank,  and  ached  to  be 
walking  it — ached,  Mr.  Kenyon,  ached ! 
But  m'  wife  has  had  nervous  prostration, 


264  tA  SUIT  DECIDED. 

and  won't  hear  of  being  left ;  and  Miss 
McCunn — well,  you  can  see  what  she  is — as 
nice  and  sweet  a  little  girl  as  ever  grew  up — 
and  took  such  an  education,  that  Mrs. 
Euretta  Hardy  Lodge  says  it  would  be  an 
evidence  of  incomplete  civilization  not  to 
afford  her  all  the  advantages  ;  and  I  s'pose 
Mrs.  Lodge  is  right.  I  never  had  any  of 
Miss  McCunn's  advantages  myself ;  and  m' 
wife  went  to  a  country  school,  and  don't 
pretend  to  keep  up  with  her.  I  guess  we're 
pretty  plain  people,  Mr.  Kenyon,  sir,  and  it 
would  be  natural  to  some  girls  who  had  Miss 
McCunn's  education  and — if  I  say  it,  who 
shouldn't — the  money  she  has  to  spend,  for 
I  don't  count  the  dollars  I  shell  out  for  her — 
to  hitch  on  to  some  of  our  stylish  folks, 
who'd  be  quick  enough  to  take  her  up,  and 
travel  about  with  her,  or  marry  her  off  to  a 
count  or  lord.  B'gosh,  sir,  I'd  like  to  see 
the  lord  that  'ud  get  Miss  McCunn  !  My 
girl  had  a  bid  to  go  to  Europe  this  summer 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  265 

with  some  of  her  high-flying  friends,  and 
what  d'ye  suppose  she  did  ?  Why,  sir,  just 
came  up  and  put  her  arms  around  my  neck, 
and  says,  '  As  long  as  I  can  coax  my  home- 
spun dad  to  travel,  he's  good  enough  for 
me  !  '  Gee  Whillikins,  Mr.  Kenyon,  I'd  'a' 
traveled  around  creation  with  little  Daly 
after  that  !" 

Kenyon  was  up  betimes,  next  day,  stalk- 
ing through  de\vy  fields,  starting  the  birds 
in  the  thickets,  and  the  hares  under  his  feet, 
to  the  Priory  farm,  where  a  civil  farmer 
showed  him  the  relics,  still  in  process  of  ex- 
humation, of  the  old-time  monastery  once 
upon  the  spot,  and,  at  parting,  told  the 
visitor  that  he  had  heard — a  rare  thing 
after  midsummer — a  nightingale's  note  the 
day  before. 

At  ten  o'clock,  as  early  as  he  dared  pre- 
sent himself  at  a  private  dwelling,  Kenyon, 
who  had  come  back  to  the  village  through 
sweet-scented  lanes  and  tasseled  hop-gar- 


266  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

dens,  offered  his  credentials  at  the  house- 
door  of  "  The  Wakes,"  to  find  himself  most 
kindly  welcomed,  and  made  free  to  sketch 
such  tokens  of  old  Gilbert's  life  there  as 
might  still  be  found. 

When,  at  luncheon-time,  he  returned  to 
the  inn,  the  McCunn  family  was  seated 
in  a  carriage  at -the  door,  about  to  drive 
away. 

"  We  shall  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  that  article 
of  Mrs.  Euretta  Hardy  Lodge's  in  the  Cos- 
mos, sir,"  said  Cyrus,  jumping  down  to  shake 
Kenyon  elaborately  by  the  hand.  "  I  guess 
Miss  McCunn  won't  have  to  put  a  marker 
in,  to  point  that  out  to  me." 

"  Miss  McCunn  will  be  putting  the  con- 
tents of  her  own  notebook  into  print  before 
long,  I  fancy,"  said  the  young  man,  going 
around  to  Idalia'sside  of  the  trap.  "  I  hope, 
by  the  way,  you  have  that  important  volume 
safe." 

"  I  hope   so,    sir,"    answered    the  young 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  267 

lady's  father,  in  her  stead.  "  For  if  she 
didn't,  I  guess  we'd  all  be  making  tracks 
back  to  Selbourne  to  look  for  it,  and  I've 
had  enough  of  this  antiquity  in  mine,  thank 
you,  for  some  time  to  come.  Now,  Mr. 
Kenyon,  don't  forget  to  hunt  us  up  when 
you  get  back  to  New  York  City.  You'll 
always  find  my  name  in  the.  Directory,  even 
if  I  fail  in  business  and  have  to  move  out 
o'  No.  4001  Fifth  Avenue,  where  we  hang 
out  now." 

"  I  don't  think  that's  likely,  Mr.  McCunn," 
said  his  lady  stolidly,  and  her  husband 
chuckled,  as  if  the  contingency  were  in  truth 
a  remote  one. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Idalia,  letting  her  eyes, 
blue  as  forget-me-nots,  rest  fearlessly  on 
Kenyon's,  as  she  put  her  little  gloved  hand 
in  his.  "  I  have  written  down  what  you 
said  last  night  about  the  charm  that  lies 
in  repose.  It  is  strange  Mrs.  Lodge  never 
thought  of  calling  our  attention  to  that,  in 


268  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

class.  And  I  am  sure  your  pictures  will  be 
beautiful." 

"  May  I  send  you  a  little  sketch  of  the 
church  to  your  banker's  care  in  London?" 
he  asked.  "  I  should  be  so  glad  to  have 
you  remember  me  by  it." 

"  That's  a  handsome  offer,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
McCunn,  shaking  hands  again.  "And  Miss 
McCunn  is  glad  to  accept  of  it.  Any- 
thing sent  to  the  care  of  Messrs.  Clayton, 
Jones  &  Co.,  London,  will  reach  us  till  Sep- 
tember 2$th — and  after  that,  please  the 
Fates,  we'll  be  on  the  briny,  making  the  best 
time  we  can  across  the  Western  ocean." 

Kenyon  in  due  time  forwarded  the  draw- 
ing, received  in  return  for  it  a  rather  prim 
and  sedately  worded  note  on  Irish  linen 
paper,  with  a  silver  monogram,  and — Idalia 
faded  from  his  mind. 

More  than  two  years  later,  after  he  had 
sketched  in  Venice  and  Madrid  and  Vienna, 
had  tried  his  luck  in  Russia  and  Constants 


A  SUIT  DECIDED. 


nople,  Kenyon  dropped  in  one  day  in  Jan- 
uary upon  his  friend  the  editor  of  the  Cos- 
mos Magazine  in  New  York.  As  they  two, 
in  connection  with  the  Art  Editor,  finished 
the  discussion  of  a  series  of  drawings  pro- 
posed for  the  coming  year  of  the  magazine, 
and  Kenyon  went  into  the  outer  office,  he 
saw,  waiting  there  under  guard  of  the  angels 
with  typewriters  who  keep  the  editorial 
doors,  a  figure  seated  upon  a  chair.  It  was 
a  woman,  young  and  graceful,  in  mourning 
dress,  holding  in  her  hand  a  flat  package 
that  betokened  MSS.,  left  studiously  un- 
rolled. Through  her  veil  of  black  net,  he 
recognized  the  face,  and  strove  to  recall  the 
name  that  ought  to  go  with  it. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Kenyon,"  she  said,  holding 
out  her  hand,  and  at  once,  he  knew  Idalia 

Me "  Now,  what  in  the  dickens  is  the 

rest  of  it  ?  "  he  inquired  of  his  inner  man. 

"  My  father  will  be  so  glad  to  hear  of  you 
again,"  she  went  on  rapidly.  "  He  took 


27°  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

such  a  fancy  to  you,  you  can't  think.  And 
if  you  could  find  time  to  visit  us " 

"  Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleas- 
ure," he  said  suavely,  still  harping  eternally 

on  the  string.  "Me What  in  the  world 

is  she — I  can't  call  her  Miss  McWhat?" 

"  I  have  a  card  here,  and  he  is  always  at 
home  in  the  evening — since  my  mother's 
death — and — other  changes.  Now,  I  must 
hurry,  as  I  have  an  appointment  with  the 
editor." 

"  You  are  by  this  time  a  full-fledged  au- 
thor?" Kenyon  went  on,  as  the  recollection 
of  her  notebook  came  back  to  him. 

"  They  have  printed  two  or  three  things 
for  me,  here,"  she  said,  blushing.  "  But  not 
over  my  own  name.  I  took  a  fancy,  when  I 
first  wrote,  to  call  myself — and  the  story 
was  liked  so  I  was  advised  not  to  change 
it — by  a  rather  stupid  little  name — Olive 
White." 

"  What,  you  are  Olive  White?  " 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  271 


"  And  I  chose  the  last  part  of  it  because 
I  remembered  that  dear  little  place,  and  a  talk 
I  had  with  you  that  influenced  me  so  much. 
Good-by,  and  you'll  come,  won't  you  ?  I 
ask  because  it  would  so  cheer  my  father 
up." 

"Olive  White  is  '  Miss  Idalia  McCunn,'  " 
he  repeated,  reading  the  card  she  had  left 
with  him.  "  Why,  I  read  that  last  story  of 
hers  when  I  was  flat  on  my  back  in  a  sunny 
corner  of  Spain,  and  cried  over  it  too,  by 
Jove  !  What  a  queer  thing  for  such  grace 
and  poetic  fancy  to  have  sprung  from  that 
parent  stock.  I  must  find  time  to  look  in 
on  them  some  day." 

If  all  the  promises  we  mortals  make  to 
call  upon  chance  encountered  friends,  were 
registered  in  heaven  to  our  debit,  it  would 
be  a  serious  addition  to  our  stock  of  things 
to  be  atoned  for.  Robert  Kenyon  fully 
meant  to  visit  the  McCunns,  but  somehow 
he  failed  to  do  so,  until  the  May  number 


272  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 


of  the  Cosmos,  containing  an  especially 
charming  little  story  from  "  Olive  White," 
jogged  his  delinquent  memory. 

"  I'll  go  this  evening  and  take  my  chance," 
he  said,  decisively,  and  proceeded  to  hunt 
up  Miss  McCunn's  address. 

On  finding  the  long-lost  card,  to  Kenyon's 
surprise,  their  abode  was  recorded  as  not  in 
Fifth  Avenue,  but  in  a  remote  eastern  quar- 
ter of  a  side  street,  certainly  one  not  to  be 
selected  by  plutocracy  for  its  dvvellingplace. 
This  fact  served  to  whet  Kenyon's  appetite 
for  search,  and  soon  after  dinner  he  made 
his  way  to  the  address  indicated. 

It  was  a  poor  house  in  a  plain  neighbor- 
hood, and  the  room,  in  which  a  maid-servant 
bade  him  wait,  confirmed  his  astonishment 
at  the  change  in  the  fortune  of  the 
McCunns.  Was  it  possible  that  the  father 
of  Idalia  had  deceived  him  as  to  his  cir- 
cumstances? Where  then  was  McCunn's 
successful  car-coupler?  Why  had  its  profits 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  273 

not  continued  to  pour  gold  into  the  purse 
of  Cyrus  K.  ? 

"  I  call  this  neighborly,"  said  a  wan, 
shabby,  and  grizzled  edition  of  the  Cyrus  of 
nearly  three  years  back,  who  at  that  mo- 
ment came  into  the  little  gas-lighted  room. 
"Mr.  Kenyon,  sir,  I'm  about  as  pleased  to 
see  you,  as  if  the  U.  S.  Supreme  Court  had 
pronounced  a  judgment  in  my  favor.  I  told 
Miss  McCunn  I  was  pretty  sure  the  frowns 
of  Fortune  upon  our  lot  would  make  no 
difference  to  you.  I  rather  guess  she  felt 
kind  of  badly  at  meeting  you,  remembering 
how  different  things  had  been  before — that 
is  to  say,  she  felt  badly  when  you  didn't 
call.  But  I  told  her  a  traveler  like  you — a 
man  that  travels  for  the  love  of  it,  and  can't 
get  his  fill  of  those  old  antiquities — had 
gone  off  somewhere  to  Japan,  or  to  the 
South  Pole,  and  would  drop  in  when  he  got 
back." 

"  I'm  here,  as  you  see,  Mr.  McCunn,"  said 


274  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

Kenyon,  touched  by  the  man's  insistent 
cheerfulness.  "  And  I'm  more  sorry  than  I 
can  say  to  hear  that  affairs  have  gone  ill 
with  you." 

"  It  can't  be  helped  now,  Mr.  Kenyon, 
and  I've  no  call  to  whine  over  spilt  milk, 
sir.  But  it  'most  killed  m'  poor  wife,  and 
pneumonia  did  the  rest.  She  never  could 
be  got  to  understand  where  the  money 
went,  and  b'gosh,  sir,  few  people  did. 
With  what  funds  I  had,  I  dipped  into  a  lot 
of  things  that  went  against  me — and,  while 
I  was  off  in  Europe  that  last  time,  a  strong 
combine  of  capitalists,  holding  a  patent  in- 
fringing on  my  invention,  ruined  me  ;  but  my 
case  has  gone  to  the  Supreme  Court,  on  ap- 
peal, sir,  and  I've  still  hopes— strong  hopes — 
for  Miss  McCunn's  sake,  sir — for,  though  she 
don't  know  it,  the  doctor  tells  me  I  can't 
get  over  this  trouble  in  my  lungs.  She 
works  hard,  does  Miss  McCunn,  and  you 
wouldn't  believe  the  pleasure  she  takes  in 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  275 

settling  bills  out  of  her  own  little  earnings. 
She's  become  quite  an  authoress,  you  know, 
sir.  Tell  you  what,  education's  a  mighty 
fine  thing,  Mr.  Kenyon.  And  how  is  art, 
sir.  Flourishing,  I  hope?" 

"  Pretty  flourishing,"  said  Kenyon  ;  and 
the  entrance  of  Idalia  struck  him  with  a 
strong  sense  of  the  girl's  refined  beauty  in 
her  developed  womanhood.  He  told  her  of 
the  pleasure  he  had  had  in  her  recent 
stories,  and  she  ran  upstairs  to  fetch  his 
framed  sketch  of  Selbourne  Church,  which 
she  took  from  her  bedroom  wall.  The  three 
talked,  and  Kenyon  lingered  until  eleven 
o'clock  warned  him  that  his  visit  had  lasted 
long  enough  to  make  amends  for  its  delay 
in  beginning. 

Kenyon  went  back,  more  than  once,  to 
the  little  house  in  the  unfashionable  quar- 
ter, and  when  summer  came  found  Idalia 
making  preparations  for  the  transfer  of  her 
invalid — whose  malady  had  now  advanced 


276  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

beyond  concealment — to  a  cheap  little 
boarding  place  on  the  Jersey  coast. 

At  Nahant,  where  he  was  stopping  later 
in  the  season,  he  wrote  to  inquire  for  them, 
and  received,  in  answer,  a  pitifully  cheerful 
note,  saying  that  although  the  air  had  not 
done  all  they  expected  for  her  father's 
health,  Idalia  felt  his  spirits  were  kept 
up  by  hope  for  the  favorable  termination  of 
his  law  suit  in  the  autumn.  Kenyon  had  to 
suppress  a  strong  impulse  to  go  down  and 
see  about  these  matters  for  himself.  His 
lifelong  habit  of  scoffing  at  weakness  of  the 
sentimental  order  was  not  to  be  conquered 
in  a  day  ;  and,  besides,  he  had  promised  his 
friend  Clive  to  cruise  with  him  during 
August  in  his  yacht. 

Through  one  cause  or  another  our  artist 
did  not  return  to  town  until  late  in  Oc- 
tober; and,  dropping  in  that  evening  to 
dine  at  the  Club,  he  found  awaiting  him  a 
note  in  Idalia's  hand  informing  him  of  her 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  277 

father's  serious  illness,  asking  him  to  call, 
and  dated  some  days  back. 

Summoning  a  cab,  he  drove  immediately 
to  the  house,  a  blank  feeling  that  all  might 
be  over  having  taken  possession  of  his 
mind.  A  light,  however,  was  burning  in 
the  invalid's  room,  and  a  message  was 
brought  him  with  the  request  to  walk  up- 
stairs. 

Poor  Cyrus  K.  McCunn,  with  the  look 
upon  his  face  almost  of  death,  lay  on  his 
pillows  apparently  in  coma  ;  on  one  side,  a 
nurse  held  a  glass  with  stimulant,  and  on 
the  other  knelt  Idalia,  clinging  tearfully  to 
his  chill  hand.  She  gave  Kenyon  a  quick 
greeting  and  then  resumed  her  study 
of  her  father's  face,  while  the  nurse  glided 
around  the  bed  and  addressed  the  new- 
comer. 

"  He  has  been  asking  for  you,  sir,  and  it 
is  possible  he  may  rouse  again  ;  in  which 
case  you  could  answer  the  question  that 


278  A  SUIT  DECIDED. 

seems  to  weigh  upon  his  mind.  But  there 
is  no  telling,  and  he  may  go  off  as  he  is." 

The  artist,  who  was  a  soft-hearted  man, 
and  little  used  to  scenes  of  this  kind,  was 
at  .first  painfully  embarrassed  and  oppressed. 
The  sight  of  the  woe-stricken  girl  about  to 
be  left  to  fight  her  way,  unaided,  through  the 
world,  roused  in  him  not  only  a  desire  to 
help  her,  but  a  tenderer  feeling,  that  he  had 
fancied  overcome.  Drawing  nearer,  he  took 
her  trembling  hand  in  his;  and  as  she  started 
and  shivered,  he  noticed  a  hot  blush  settle 
upon  her  still  averted  face. 

But  he  did  not  loose  his  hold,  and  soon 
the  nurse  looked  up  from  her  patient,  to 
whom  she  had  just  administered  the  stimu- 
lant. 

"  Now,  he  is  coming  to,"  she  whispered. 

"  Idalia,  is  Mr.  Kenyon  there?  "  were  the 
next  words  to  break  the  stillness  of  the 
room. 

"  I    am    here,    Mr.    McCunn,    and    glad 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  279 


to  do  anything  I  can  for  you,"  said  his 
visitor. 

"  Mr.  Kenyon,  sir,  I  was  sure  you'd  not 
mind  my  sending.  The  world  and  I  are 
about  settling  up  accounts.  A  little  while 
ago,  sir,  thinking  of  what  might  come,  I 
made  a  new  will — it's  all  straight,  signed 
and  sealed,  in  my  lawyer's  hands — and  I've 
named  you  trustee  of  my  entire  estate,  sir. 
No  offense  meant,  Mr.  Kenyon  ;  but,  if  it 
bothers  you,  I  want  to  ask  your  pardon,  now. 
Sole  trustee — Idalia  knows  what  I — haven't 
strength  to  say.  It's  because — we  believe 
in  you,  Mr.  Kenyon — Miss  McCunn  and  I." 

"  I  accept  the  charge.  You  may  trust 
your  child  to  me,  Mr.  McCunn,"  said  Ken- 
yon, tightening  his  clasp  upon  the  little 
hand.  That  much,  he  felt,  was  tangible,  the 
rest  he  believed  to  be  a  mere  delusion  of  a 
dying  brain. 

"  Is  that  so,  Mr.  Kenyon  ?  "  the  man  said, 
a  pleased  look  coming  amid  the  violet 


A  SUIT  DECIDED. 


shadows  on  his  countenance.  "  Then  I 
guess  it's  about  the  last  thing  to  trouble  me. 
She  won't  let  the  business  bother  you  any 
more  than  she  can  help.  It'll  be  a  big  lot 
of  money  to  look  out  for,  but  she's  a  level- 
headed  girl,  and  a  good,  dear,  loving  girl, 
that  deserves  every  cent  of  it,  and  more. 
God  bless  my  little  one  —  why,  Daly  dear, 
who'd  V  thought  you'd  be  crying  the 
day  the  news  came  I'd  won  my  suit  and 
you're  one  of  the  champion  heiresses  of 
America  .  .  .  Mr.  Kenyon,  sir,  ...  to  hear 
to-day  that  the  Supreme  Court  .  .  .  has 
decided  ...  in  my  favor  ...  is  what  I  call 
a  close  connection  !  " 

"  Oh  !  father,  father,"  cried  Idalia  implor- 
ingly, throwing  herself  on  the  bed  in  a  fresh 
burst  of  grief,  as  Kenyon  loosed  her  hand 
and  started  back.  "  Speak  to  me  again  — 
don't  leave  me  alone  like  this." 

But  with  his  last  grim  effort  at  a  joke, 
McCunn's  voice  had  failed,  and  he  lay  quite 


A  SUIT  DECIDED.  281 

deaf  and  still.  Very  soon  they  saw  that  he 
had  passed  beyond  earthly  jurisdiction  to 
appear  before  the  final  Arbiter. 

A  deep  red  flush  burned  upon  Kenyon's 
cheek,  as  with  some  constraint  he  bent  over 
the  weeping  girl  and  whispered  in  her  ear. 
Then  with  a  sudden  confiding  movement, 
like  a  child  eager  for  con-solation  from  the 
one  it  loves,  Idalia  turned  toward  him  and, 
with  his  arm  about  her,  let  him  lead  her 
from  the  room. 


THE   END. 


UNIVERSITY  ot  CALIF 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


THE  ANGLOMANIACS. 

A  Story  of  New  York  Society  To-day. 

By  MRS.  BURTON  HARRISON. 


A  Volume,  i2mo,  on  Extra  Fine  Laid  Paper,  Dainty  Binding) 
$1.00.     Also  in  "  Cassell's  Sunshine  Series,"  paper,  500. 


This  is  the  story  that  has  attracted  such  wide  attention  while 
running  through  the  Century  Magazine.  There  has  been  no  such 
picture  of  New  York  social  life  painted  within  the  memory  of  the 
present  generation.  The  satire  is  as  keen  as  a  rapier  point,  while  the 
story  itself  has  its  marked  pathetic  side.  Never  has  the  subject  of 
Anglomania  been  so  cleverly  treated  as  in  these  pages,  and  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  society  is  deeply  agitated  as  to  the  authorship 
of  a  story  which  touches  it  in  its  most  vulnerable  part. 

"  This  delicious  satire  from  the  pungent  pen  of  an  anonymous  writer 
must  be  read  to  be  appreciated.  From  the  introduction  on  board  the 
Etruria  to  the  final,  when  the  heroine  waves  adieu  to  her  English  Lord,  it 
Is  life,  real,  true  American  life,  and  we  blush  at  the  truth  of  the  picture. 
There  is  no  line  not  replete  with  scathing  sarcasm,  no  character  which  we 
have  not  seen  and  known.  .  .  .  Read  this  book  and  see  human  nature ; 
ponder  upon  what  is  there  written,  and  while  it  may  not  make  you  wise,  it 
certainly  will  make  you  think  upon  what  is  a  great  and  growing  social 
evil." — Norristovan  Daily  Herald. 

"  The  heroine  is  the  daughter  of  an  honest  money-making  old  father 
and  an  ignorant  but  ambitious  mother,  whose  money  has  enabled  the 
mother  and  daughter  to  make  their  way  into  the  circle  of  the  '  Foui 
Hundred.'  "— N.  Y.  Herald. 


CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 

104  &.•  106  FOURTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


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